<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Occam's Razor by cosmic_medusa</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27687719">Occam's Razor</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmic_medusa/pseuds/cosmic_medusa'>cosmic_medusa</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abusive John Winchester, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Night Terrors, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Dean Winchester, Psychological Trauma, Teen Dean Winchester, Teen Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 02:00:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>39,128</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27687719</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmic_medusa/pseuds/cosmic_medusa</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>John brings the teen boys to a psychic to investigate the memories of his wife's death. His investigation unlocks a flood of devastation in the youngest Winchester's psyche.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>174</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Part I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally published in 2013 <a href="https://cosmic-medusa.livejournal.com/1683.html">on my live journal</a>.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p><b><em>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:</em> </b> <em><br/>December 1983. Mixing holy water in formula. No visible reactions.</em></p><p> </p><p></p><div class="center">
  <p>*</p>
</div><p>
  <em><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:</b><br/>February 1984. Feeding with solid silver spoon. No visible reactions.</em>
</p><p>***</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><div>
  <p>
    <b>Late 1997</b>
  </p>
</div><p><br/>"No."<br/><br/>John Winchester sighed. "Just—hear me out." <br/><br/>"I'm hearing a whole lot of stupid on this end, John Winchester. You don't have a clue what you're doing."<br/><br/>In the Motel's backlot, Sam and Dean were sparring, Dean in charge. He heard Sam's indignant shouts, and Dean's laughter. "He checks out. Said he may be able to get a picture of whatever was in the nursery that night."<br/><br/>"And how exactly does he plan on doing that?"<br/><br/>"He didn't say."<br/><br/>"You mean you didn't ask. You're willing to let him bust open your boys' heads without a second thought."<br/><br/>"Missouri," John rubbed his eyes. "It's been fourteen years, and I don't have a single lead."<br/><br/>"You have no idea what you could open up," Missouri warned, her voice suddenly lower, darker. "You could damage your children permanently."<br/><br/>"Or we could finally have something to go on. Something to track and kill."<br/><br/>"You think Mary would let you risk her boys like this? Even for her?"<br/><br/>Dean's angry "hey!" and Sam's laughter filtered through. Seconds later he heard "no, no!" and glanced out to see his youngest tucked under his eldest's arm, twirled in a violent circle as he laughed and kicked weakly against him.<br/><br/>"Stop! I'm gonna puke!" He hollered, still laughing. Dean dropped him and pounced, pinning him easily. John felt something he'd never acknowledge as envy twist inside him.<br/><br/>"They're my boys too," he snapped.<br/><br/>"John—"<br/><br/>"Goodbye, Missouri."<br/><br/></p><p>He slammed the phone shut. Sam was still pinned, still laughing. Dean was grinning back, and a moment later sat up and yanked Sam to his feet, a universal sign of "truce."</p><p>"Dean!" John barked. Sam's grin vanished. "Load up. We're moving out in ten."</p><p>Sam shoved his hands in his pockets. Dean tossed a casual arm over his brother's smaller shoulders and strode easily back toward the Motel room.</p><p> </p><p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div><p><br/>Dean and Sam had been bickering for the past fifteen minutes. What had started out with Sam trying to negotiate with Dean to let him ride shotgun had somehow evolved into a list of grievances involving the shower, hair, Dean's razor, Sam's toothpaste, and something about quarters. John never paid much, if any, attention to his boys' quarrels: they seemed to sort out their issues easily, and the rare times they hadn't, the pressure of training had forced them back into a rhythm.<br/><br/>"Enough," John barked. "Listen up." He could feel Sam's eye roll, just as he felt Dean straighten by his side. "We're not going to Bobby's for you two to mess around. We're going to meet a psychic."<br/><br/>"A psychic?" Dean raised his eyebrows.<br/><br/>"For what?" Sam said. Eying him with suspicion. Something that never came out of Dean.<br/><br/>"A very well-respected psychic. Aided a lot of hunters. Specializes in the unconscious. Catches glimpses of things that have been repressed or occurred to early for witnesses' to remember."<br/><br/>"I thought this last one was a salt and burn, Dad," Dean said.<br/><br/>"We're not going about that."<br/><br/>The boys shared a glance in the rear-view mirror. "You don't think—"<br/><br/>"He's going to take a look at you. See if there's something either of you saw that might help us get on the trail of it."</p><p>No need to define 'it.' The boys knew what he meant: whatever killed Mary.</p><p>"What makes you think <em>we </em>know?" Sam demanded.<br/><br/>"For starters, it was in <em>your </em>room."<br/><br/>Both boys straightened--Sam, ready to fight; Dean, ready to defend.<br/><br/>"Dad, it's not Sammy's—"</p><p>"You said I was only—"</p><p>"This is not a discussion!" John roared. "You're going to let him look and you're going to say what you see. If it's nothing we're not worse off than we are now."</p><p>Sammy slumped back, arms folded, jaw set. Dean nodded dutifully. He couldn't tell which annoyed him more.<br/><em><br/>I'm hearing a whole lot of stupid on this end, John Winchester. You don't have a clue what you're doing.</em><br/><br/>John stomped on the gas. The boys remained silent, the whole three hour drive.</p><p> </p><p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div><p><br/>Julian Masters—or so he was known in hunter's circles—sat calmly in Bobby's dusty study. The boys exchanged pleasantries, John overseeing. Julian simply looked from Dean to Sam, than rose and beckoned the elder Winchester brother to his side.<br/><br/>Julian looked over Dean slowly, leering close to his face to inspect his eyes. Dean threw a WTF? look to his brother that had Sam stifling a laugh. The psychic shook his head and smirked.<br/><br/>"You...are many things. Several of which are unpleasant." Sam couldn't stifle that laugh, even when John shot a furious glare his way. "But at your core..." he frowned slightly, and then his features softened. He nodded solemnly. "I'm sorry. You don't have any further memories that could be of help."<br/><br/>"Told you," Dean mumbled. John sent another death glare his way. Sam crossed his arms and did his best  'angry-Dad'  face, causing Dean to snort. Julian turned to the younger Winchester, his smile kind.<br/><br/>"Your turn, son." Sam swapped places with Dean, bouncing off his brother's playful shoulder-bump as they passed. The psychic took his chin gently in his hands and began the same inspection he'd given Dean. He focused his dark, intense eyes on Sam's, his face carefully still in that way Sam had seen Dean do when he was nervous and hiding it.<br/><br/>"And you think <em>I'm</em> unpleasant, Doc—"<br/><br/>"Dean," John warned. Sam wanted to roll his eyes but couldn't seem to break from Julian's hold. The man leaned even closer, drawing in a deep breath, and Sam watched Dean's face changed from amused to wary, shoulders stiffen, ready to start swinging at a second's notice.<br/><br/>"I can't read this boy," Julian declared.<br/><br/>"You think he saw whatever it was that night?"<br/><br/>"If he did, it's sealed in the unconscious."<br/><br/>"Can you get to it?"<br/><br/>Julian gave Sam a strange look. "I'm not sure."<br/><br/>"What are you seeing?"<br/><br/>His eyes were scanning Sam's once more. A strange, almost surreal glimmer shimmered over them, and for a moment, Sam would have sworn they looked almost yellow.<br/><br/>"His unconscious is locked."<br/><br/>"Locked?"<br/><br/>"Sealed. Warded."<br/><br/>"Can you open it?"<br/><br/>The psychic squinted, eyes moving from left to right, as if reading something intently. "I may be able to loosen it."<br/><br/>"We just need a peek. A picture of what it was."<br/><br/>"Is it dangerous?" Dean asked.<br/><br/>"Possibly."<br/><br/>"Then forget it."<br/><br/>"Dean, be quiet."</p><p>"Dad, if it's locked, shouldn't it stay that way?"</p><p>"Not if the thing we're hunting locked it. There could be an answer in there."</p><p>"It's not a <em>safe</em>, Dad, it's Sammy's <em>head</em>!"</p><p>John ignored him and turned to Julian. "You think you can get a picture?"</p><p>"I may. I won't be able to tell until he's under."<br/><br/>"So we put him under."<br/><br/>"Fine," John said, at the same time Dean said "No."<br/><br/>"Dad, you said—"<br/><br/>"This is not a discussion, Dean."<br/><br/>"Or a Democracy," Sam mumbled.<br/><br/>"You watch your tone." Sam frowned for a beat before nodding and mumbling a half-hearted "Yes sir." John turned back to the psychic. "Putting him under...what does that mean?"<br/><br/>"A state of deep hypnosis. He'll go to sleep, I'll attempt to open a window or loosen a door enough so we can see what was there."<br/><br/>"You think you can?" Julian turned back to Sam. His younger son shivered. His elder moved closer, ever-ready to protect, defend. As if John were incapable. "And it won't hurt him?"<br/><br/>"No."<br/><br/>"Sammy?" Sam turned to Dean. "Look at me," John snapped.<br/><br/>"Sir," Sam nearly spat.<br/><br/>"Well?"<br/><br/>Sam glanced between his father and psychic. "Fine," he mumbled.</p><p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div><p><br/>"You sure this is a good idea?"<br/><br/>John slammed the trunk of the Impala. "Don't tell me what to do with my boys, Bobby."<br/><br/>"I'm just sayin'," he hunter drawled, "yeah, guy's got a good rep for breakin' witnesses, but no hunter's ever stuck around to report on the aftermath."<br/><br/>"Meaning?"<br/><br/>"We don't know for sure what 'opening a window' or 'cracking a door' is going to do to the kid."<br/><br/>"I'm sure that whatever the aftereffects, we'll handle it as a family." John stalked forward, over-night bag in hand. "Hunting this...thing has been our goal for over fourteen years. If this is what finally ends it, it's worth it."<br/><br/>"Damnit, John, you're playing fast and loose with the minds of your children!"<br/><br/>"You have a hell of a nerve telling me anything about raising children," John spat. He meant it to hurt. It worked.<br/><br/>"This goes wrong," Bobby hissed, "it's gonna be on your head. And your soul. And I and many others will wrestle those boys from you so fast you won't know what hit you."<br/><br/>John stomped up the stairs. "We'll be gone by morning."<br/><br/>"You see that <em>you </em>are, or <em>I</em> will," Bobby snapped.</p><p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div><p><br/>Julian had set-up in the living room. Sam was lying on the couch, Dean hovering by the desk. Sam seemed far calmer than his elder brother: Dean fidgeted, clenched his jaw, and glared as they walked in the room.<br/><br/>Bobby felt like doing the same. Dean's instincts were solid: he'd been raised as a hunter, and he took to it like a fish to water. He smelled peril and danger easier than most men smelled sausage and bacon. And not intervening on a potentially dangerous situation for his brother went against every instinct—hunter or normal—that he possessed.<br/><br/>Bobby had long seen how Sam, who was ferociously independent, chafed under Dean's equally ferocious protectiveness. But for all the times he'd fought for independence, there were many more times where he gave it up and retreated to Dean, confident and safe in his elder brother's care.<br/><br/>It wasn't right to put so much responsibility on Dean. The same way it wasn't right that Sam gravitated toward his brother for safety rather than his father.<br/><br/>Bobby had never been a brother or a father, but he didn't know how John couldn't see what was happening to his sons, and how it would shape the rest of their lives.<br/><br/>"Sam," Julian said, "I'm going to count backwards from five. When I get to one, you will be in a state of deep sleep. Completely relaxed. alright?" His hand hovered over the Winchester boy. "Now...five...four...three...two..." Sam's body went limp: his breath, steady, "one."<br/><br/>Sam lay relaxed, hands at his sides. Dean was rigid beside him. Bobby lay a gentle hand on the elder Winchester brother's shoulder, only to feel him start. Dean glanced at him, met the elder hunter's eyes, and nodded in grim acceptance.<br/><br/>"Sam," the psychic murmured, low and gentle, "can you hear me?"<br/><br/>"Yes," Sam murmured.<br/><br/>"Do you know where you are?"<br/><br/>"Bobby's."<br/><br/>"What's your last name?"<br/><br/>"Winchester."<br/><br/>"What's your brother's and father's names?"<br/><br/>"Dean and John."<br/><br/>"Good," Julian smiled. "Okay. Sam. Your father has been training you as a hunter. Yes?"<br/><br/>"Yes."<br/><br/>"You know a lot of different creatures. Yes?"<br/><br/>"Yes."<br/><br/>"Okay." Julian frowned. "I want you to look back to that night in the nursery. When you were a baby. Six months old."<br/><br/>"No."<br/><br/>"No?"<br/><br/>"No."<br/><br/>"Why no, Sam?"<br/><br/>"Don't want to."<br/><br/>"Just a look."<br/><br/>"Can't. No."<br/><br/>"Can't?"<br/><br/>"Can't. Locked." Sam shuddered. "No. He says no."<br/><br/>"He?"<br/><br/>"No."<br/><br/>"Sam. Who's 'he?'"<br/><br/>"He says no."<br/><br/>"Who. Is. 'He.'"<br/><br/>Sam twitched, tossing his head, breathing increasing. "He...he says...says...no. " He flinched suddenly. "He says...stay...stay...back."<br/><br/>Julian nodded. "I understand, Sam. But I'm going to push a bit. I'm going to try and open a window in your mind."<br/><br/>"No. He says...he says...he won't."<br/><br/>"He won't what?" Sam flinched again, more violently. "Sam?"<br/><br/>"Get—back!"<br/><br/>"Just a small window. And then—"<br/><br/>"No. He says—" Sam gasps. "His eyes—"<br/><br/>"What about his eyes Sam?"<br/><br/>"His—no, I—" Sam began to toss and turn, as if attempting to dislodge something from his mouth. "No, it—it's not—he's not—" he gasped again.<br/><br/>"I'm going to push harder, Sam."</p><p>"No—he'll—he's—no, no no NO!"</p><p>"Sammy—" Dean moved forward, only to have his father stop him. "Stop it!" he pleaded.</p><p>"Sam, tell me what you see," Julian ordered.<br/><br/>"Get—back—no. No! NOOO! HELP ME!" Sammy shot up, papers and books flying. The fire shot up unnaturally high and burned so yellow the four men had to turn from it. "NO, NOOO! HELP ME! SOMEONE HELP ME!"<br/><br/>"Sammy!" Dean shouted, lunging for his brother. Bobby grabbed him and pulled. "Let me go—Sam—SAMMY!"<br/><br/>"What are you seeing?" Julian demanded. Sam screamed again, and the room filled with that unnatural wind.<br/><br/>"Stop it, STOP IT!" Dean bellowed, breaking the elder hunter's grasp and rushing to his young brother. "Sam, it's okay, don't—" but Sam's scream sent him flying back into the wall and earned him a ferocious smack on the head.<br/><br/>"HELP ME, HELP ME, OH—NO NO NO!"<br/><br/>"Wake him!" Bobby demanded, helping Dean to his feet. "Now!"<br/><br/>Julian put a hand before him and said calmly "and 3...2...1..."<br/><br/>Sam gasped and jerked, as if seizing, before collapsing back into the bed. His eyes slid open weakly, damp and skittish.<br/><br/>"What did it look like?" John demanded. Sam flinched away from the sound, gasped, and began to writhe, a terrible, weak mewling noise coming from his throat.<br/><br/>Dean broke free of Bobby and made it to the sofa in three quick strides.<br/><br/>"Sammy," Dean gasped, grasping his brother's still-flailing arms, "Sammy, Sammy it's okay, it's okay—"<br/><br/>Sam gasped, fingers digging into his brother's green shirt.<br/><br/>"It's me, it's me. It's alright, buddy. I gotcha—"<br/><br/>Sam let out a gut-wrenching sob. Dean leaned down, scooped his brother up, and pulled him into his arms. He hushed him gently, rocking ever so slightly as his younger boy shook and sobbed against him. Dean's eyes drifted toward Bobby, who said cooly "guest-room's made up," as Dean coaxed the trembling Sam to his feet and, arm still around him, guided him up the stairs.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class=""><b><em>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:</em></b><br/><em>February 1987<b>.</b> Prayers in Latin. No visible reactions. </em><br/><br/>*<br/><br/><em><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:</b><br/>February 1990<b>.</b> Revealed truth. S faked surprise. Possible he remembers/visited by thing?<br/><br/></em></p><p class="">***</p><p class="">"What did you see?"</p><p class="">Julian frowned. "I can't be sure."</p><p class="">"What the hell does that mean?" John demanded.</p><p class="">"There is something...truly off. The wards on his mind...even when I loosened them, I wasn't able to see what he was experiencing."</p><p class="">"And what was...the wind, the fire?"</p><p class="">"There's power in him. It was kept in check by the wards. When I loosened them some was released."</p><p class="">"I'll get Sam," John started for the stairs.</p><p class="">Bobby, who had been watching the exchange in disbelief, finally moved to slam John away from the stairs. "The <em>hell </em>you will," he growled.</p><p class="">"Out of my way, Singer."</p><p class="">"Did you see what happened to your son? Not to mention that your other took a full blow to the head when that...<em>power</em> tossed him to the wall."</p><p class="">"I told you—"</p><p class="">"I <span class="">ain't</span> your damn subordinate, Winchester!"</p><p class="">John straightened up, his face darkening. "Don't stand between me and my sons."</p><p class="">"I want both of you out."</p><p class="">"I'm getting Sam and Dean."</p><p class="">"You move toward those stairs and I'll blast your ass so full of rock salt you'll shit diamonds."</p><p class="">"John," Julian interceded. "If you don't mind...come with me. I could use your assistance in decoding the wards. It will give Sam a chance to rest."</p><p class="">Bobby kept himself between John and the stairs. He watched Winchester's obsessive drive for revenge warring with his patriarchal drive to reclaim his sons.</p><p class="">It was just damn wrong that Bobby knew which would win.</p><p class="">"You've got the weekend," John growled.</p><p class=""> </p><p class="">***</p><p class="">Bobby doesn't see Dean until 2:30 in the morning, when they meet in the kitchen.</p><p class="">"Sam asleep?" he asks.</p><p class="">"No," Dean sighs, rubs his eyes, puts the kettle on. "I'm making him tea and I'm <span class="">gonna</span> load it with milk and slip a little whiskey in."</p><p class="">"He say what happened?"</p><p class="">"He won't talk, Bobby."</p><p class="">"Give it time."</p><p class="">"No...Bobby, he won't <em>talk.</em> Not just about that." He glances toward the doorway. "Sammy never cries like that. Not even as a kid. I couldn't calm him down. He won't say anything to me." His eyes locked in on Bobby's. "What the hell did he do to him?"</p><p class="">"Kid, if I knew, I'd tell you. Whatever Sam saw...we're <span class="">gonna</span> have to hear it from him." Dean nodded. "Look, I'm sure he'll sleep it off. Just give him a little time. Your Daddy's gone for the weekend, so you boys can just take your time figuring this out."<br/><br/>Dean nodded, rubbing the back of his head. "I knew I shouldn't have let this go down."<br/><br/>"Hell, I did too. It ain't gonna do Sam good to dwell on it now. Just put him out and get some sleep yourself. Been a hell of a day."<br/><br/>"Yeah." Dean sighed. "Thanks, Bobby."<br/><br/>"My home's yours, son. You know where everything is. Help yourself."<br/><br/>Dean disappears back upstairs. Bobby retreats to the study. In all honesty, he really had no idea, come morning, what they would be up against, or if things would be as quick a fix as he'd said. But he <em>had </em>meant that dwelling in guilt wouldn't do the youngest Winchester any good right now, and he fully intended to put aside his own and focus on finding all he could on the so-called "Julian Masters."</p><p class="">***</p><p class="">Morning comes and Sam still won't speak. He won't eat. He spends hours sitting out among the scrap, staring, hunched in his <span class="">hoodie</span>, looking small and impossibly fragile and thin. Dean goes in to full throttle big-brother mode—he jokes, coaxes, babys, nudges, bribes and pleads, but Sam doesn't talk, and anytime it seems like he might the tears start, and Dean pulls him in close and holds on for awhile until they die again. Bobby tries too, even giving Sam little side research projects in the hopes it will get him to say <em>something</em>, but all Sam does is mark up the book with neat, clear notes and put it in front of him, then goes back to sitting alone on the hood of an old Mazda.</p><p class="">At night, Bobby finds the boys in front of the television, some comedy playing, Dean's arm around Sam while the younger Winchester curls into his brother, eyes large and damp. Dean jostles his brother at the funny parts, ruffles his hair, but Sam barely responds, except to reach up and clutch Dean's shirt when he sees Bobby watching them.</p><p class="">Sam falls asleep under Dean's arm, and Dean lays him down, tucks him in with a blanket from the back of the couch, and follows Bobby to the kitchen.</p><p class="">"He's no better," he says, eyes dark, exhausted, and clearly distressed. "Bobby, he won't <em>talk. </em>And he won't sleep either. When he does he cries, in his <em>dreams</em>."</p><p class="">"Just...give it time."</p><p class="">"He won't speak. He won't <em>eat</em>, Bobby. What the <em>hell </em>did that <span class="">sonofabitch</span> do to him?"</p><p class="">"Kid, I wish I knew."</p><p class="">"Bobby, he—" he glances behind him, "he's a tough kid. He doesn't let loose like that...and he...<em>clings</em>...he never did. I mean...I'm here for him, I'd do anything for him, but he...he's just...he hurt him <em>bad. </em>I don't know what to <em>do</em>." Dean's eyes are damp and desperate, and Bobby wants to beat John with the butt of his shotgun.</p><p class="">"You keep doing what you're doing. Sam will come around."</p><p class="">But a day passes, then two, then three, and there's no visible change. John calls to inform them he'll be gone longer than expected, off to hunt and visit some research libraries along the way. Dean takes to sitting Sam down at the table, putting an arm around him, and telling him sternly that they're not getting up until he eats, but whatever they put in front of him he barely manages half of, and even then he has to pause and lean into his brother, eyes damp, as if Dean's gentle hold and soft words give him the strength to swallow.</p><p class="">Dean drives them into town and returns looking even more worried. He strolls out into the junkyard to sit on the hoods of old cars with his brother, reading aloud from books he bought from the small city store, for hours at a time, with no results other than Sam leaning into him, and occasionally letting the tears fall. Bobby studies late into the night, but knows there's no straight and easy cure for seeing what burned your mother alive when you were six months old.</p><p class="">"I hate to say it," he tells Dean when they meet in the kitchen, late into the night,  "but it may be that something supernatural isn't the case here. Maybe we need another kind of help."</p><p class="">Dean straightens, suddenly fierce. "My brother's not crazy."</p><p class="">"I'm not saying he is. I'm saying he's hurting and he might need help."</p><p class="">"Then we help."</p><p class="">"Dean. Be reasonable. This may be more than you can handle."</p><p class="">"There's nothing we can't handle."</p><p class="">"Sam won't <em>talk</em>, you said yourself."</p><p class="">"So we wait until he's ready."</p><p class="">"And if he's never?"</p><p class="">"He's tough. He'll be fine."</p><p class="">Bobby was about to point out that several days ago they'd stood on opposite sides of the issue when Sam appeared in the doorway, eyes damp and tired. Dean smiled.</p><p class="">"Hey, bud. You want some of that tea?" Sam didn't move, didn't even acknowledge this brother had spoken. Dean crossed the kitchen and slipped an arm around him casually, tugging him close. "Thirsty? Hungry? <span class="">Hm</span>?" Sam just pressed against him, and Dean rubbed his shoulder gently. "Sleepy. I get it. Make you a deal, okay? You down a glass of milk with me and Bobby here, and I'll bunk in with you tonight. Sound good?"</p><p class="">Sam looked between the two of them and began to shake. He reached up and gripped his brother's shirt and took a deep, slow breath. "Dean," he murmured, and the two elder hunters went stiff. "I...I'm ready for you to do it now."</p><p class="">"Do what, Sammy?" Dean murmured.</p><p class="">"You know." He locked his jaw and raised his chin, trying to look brave. "Just...please, get it over with. Make it quick."</p><p class="">"Make <em>what </em>quick, kiddo?"</p><p class="">"Just...<em>do </em>it, Dean." His voice hitched.</p><p class="">"Sammy...I don't know what you want me to do," Dean said gently. Sam's face twisted.</p><p class="">"Just...kill me," he sobbed. "It's okay, just be quick. Please? I want it to be you. You'll...you'll be quick, Dean, I know it."</p><p class="">"<em>Kill </em>you?" Dean clutched his brother tight. "Sammy, what are you <em>talking </em>about? No one's killing you, least of all me!"</p><p class="">"But...you know."</p><p class="">"Know <em>what</em>?"</p><p class="">"What...that thing...<em>did</em>!" Sam clutched Dean tighter. "Dean, I'm a <em>monster</em>."</p><p class="">"Sammy," Dean gasped, arms going around his brother. "You could never be. I don't know what you saw in that vision, but you are not a monster, and no one here is going to hurt you. Understand?"</p><p class="">Sam shook his head. "<span class="">Dad'll</span> kill me, Dean. Please, I want it to be you. You won't let it hurt. It'll be over and I won't know it, I know. Please, I want it to be you."</p><p class="">"I don't know what you mean, buddy," Dean soothed, stroking Sam's hair. "No one's going to hurt you."</p><p class="">"Just...get it <em>over </em>with!" Sam wailed. Dean continued to smooth his hair as his brother sobbed against him, looking up helplessly at Bobby.</p><p class="">"Boy, you think I'd let <em>anything </em>bad happen to you in my house?" Bobby snapped, trying to match John's authoritative tone. Sam's wild, wet eyes locked in on his. "You think I'd fix up my guest room so your brother and father could <em>kill </em>you? You two are like sons to me. Nothing and no one is coming <em>near </em>you as long as I live and breathe. And your brother here? He feels the same."</p><p class="">Sam just sobbed, fists closing in on Dean's shirt. Dean held him close, murmured "it's okay, Sammy, it's okay," until his brother calmed slightly. "Let's hit the hay, alright? <span class="">Bobby'll</span> keep an eye on things."</p><p class="">"I'm sorry," Sam wept.</p><p class="">"Just get some sleep, kid," Bobby said calmly." Dean gathered his brother in and guided him up the steps once more.</p><p class=""> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="">
  <em><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:</b><br/>March1990. Packed rock-salt in shot-gun shells. No adverse reactions to iron.<br/><br/></em>
</p><p class="">*<br/><br/><em><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/></b>July1990. Reluctant to grave dig. Inattentive during weapon training.<br/></em></p><p></p><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>   ***   </p>
</div><p>                                                                              </p><p class="">                In the guestroom, Dean tried to settle them both. He smoothed Sam's floppy, dark hair, let his skinny brother burrow against his chest, pulled him in close and tried to force his own heart to slow. Let the kid think everything was under control. Dean knew the drill.</p><p class="">                "Why'd you think we'd hurt you, Sammy?" he murmured. Sam gripped his shirt and shuddered.</p><p class="">                "You always do the right thing, Dean," Sam managed. "It's okay. Just...make it quick.."</p><p class="">                "I'm not going to lay a finger on you, and I'm not going to let Bobby or Dad or anyone else." He yanked his brother closer, ignoring the tense muscles. "You're <em>safe </em>Sammy, I swear."</p><p class="">                Sam didn't answer, just gripped Dean's shirt and pressed tight against him. Dean dreaded the silence.</p><p class="">                "C'mon, kiddo, don't go mute on me again. Talk to me.  You've always talked to me."</p><p class="">                "I've...I've tried to wait. I thought...I figured Dad was going to figure out the best way to do it, and...and you were waiting so I wouldn't know." Sam shook against him. Dean snaked a hand up to rub the back of his brother's head. "I know you...you wouldn't want it to hurt....thought you'd just...put something in my...food or....maybe a drink so I'd just...go in my sleep. Or wait until I was asleep and then—"<br/><br/>               "<em>Stop it</em>, Sammy, Jesus—"<br/><br/>               "I...I can't take waiting anymore, Dean. I just want it to be <em>over.</em>"</p><p class="">                "Sam," Dean said sternly, pushing him away to lock eyes with his brother. "<em>No one's going to hurt you</em>."</p><p class="">                "Then why did Dad leave? What did he go to get?"</p><p class="">                "<em>Nothing</em>, kiddo." He tilted Sam's chin up. "Bobby sent him away. The two of us have been trying to get you back on your feet. That's all." He pushed some hair back as Sam's chin wobbled. "We don't know what you saw, Sam. Honestly, the only reason I care is because of what it did to you. Dad never should have let him put you under. If I'd known this is what would happen I wouldn't have <em>let </em>him, Sammy."</p><p class="">                "You...you didn't know?"</p><p class="">                "Of course I didn't know!" Dean sat up, forcing Sam up with him. "He told me what he told you—that he thought he had a way to see the thing. Through a psychic. I never <em>imagined—</em>" his voice caught. "Then...I thought...it'd be a glimpse, nothing more...you'd know the creature and..." Dean swallowed, hard. "Shit, Sammy, I'm so sorry. This is all my fault."</p><p class="">                "It's not." Sam grasped desperately at his brother's arms. "No, Dean, I'd—if he'd—told me this would happen I still would have done it. It's for Mom and...I thought I could...I didn't—think—" his voice wavered again. Dean laid warm, firm hands on his shoulders and rubbed, softly.</p><p class="">                "What did you see, Sammy?" he murmured. Sam's wide, dark eyes shut tight, and he shivered.</p><p class="">                "I'm not...sure." He shuddered. Dean kept his hands moving in soothing circles. "It was...a man. Human, I think. At least...he sorta looked it, but...his eyes..." his breath hitched. Dean waited, allowing him space. "They weren't...right. Kinda...yellow. And they glowed in the dark, like...a cat."</p><p class="">                "That all?"</p><p class="">                Sam shook his head. "He had a black coat,  I think. And I..." a tear slid out from under his lid. "I don't know how I knew, but I <em>knew </em>he was...wrong. Bad. It was cold. I...I was crying out, the only way I could. I heard...I heard her voice."</p><p class="">                "Mom's?"</p><p class="">                Sam nodded. "But...the words don't make sense."</p><p class="">                "You didn't know any."</p><p class="">                "No. But I thought...now...that they would."</p><p class="">                Dean nodded. "That all?"</p><p class="">                Sam shook his head. "I...Mom...she left. And then...came back. That's when she screamed. Dad came in. I..." his voice broke. Dean kept his hands steady: his face, composed. "I could...see her, Dean and I...I felt safe. I wasn't crying. She was over my crib but...it was okay. And then Dad came in and I...I laughed. The man was gone. Everything was fine. But then the ceiling...it was all fire and this...<em>roar </em>and..." Sam's eyes opened and he clutched at his brother. "I knew the man was still there. I know he <em>wanted </em>me, Dean. It wasn't Mom he was after, it was <em>me</em>! He did something to me, he...when he stood over me, there was something that hit my mouth that started me crying...it burned my throat, it was <em>wrong</em>, and it scared me. I wanted it out, I wanted it to go <em>away</em>! I woke up Mom and she came in and that's what <em>started </em>everything, don't you see? That <em>thing </em>did something to me and now we lost Mom and I may have something evil in me and Dad will kill me when he knows, Dean, I want it to be you, I want you to just <em>finish </em>it—"</p><p class="">                "Sammy, Sammy," Dean clasped his brother's face in his hands and forced him to look up. "Listen to me. When the fire started, do you remember what happened after?"</p><p class="">                Sam looked at him wildly. "Dad...Dad pulled me out of the crib."</p><p class="">                "And then? Did you see what happened then?"</p><p class="">                "He..." his voice hitched. He frowned slightly. "He...gave me to you."</p><p class="">                "And I carried you down the stairs out the front door. Did you see that?" Sam nodded slowly. "I told you it was okay. I held onto you and I kept you safe. You think I'd just turn around now and <em>kill </em>you? Because some <em>thing </em>almost did?" Sam dropped his head and Dean pulled him into his arms once more. "it's okay," he soothed. "It's okay, buddy. I don't know what that thing put in your mouth but we'll fix it."</p><p class="">                "What if I turn into a monster, Dean?" he managed.</p><p class="">                "You're not gonna, kiddo. It doesn't work like that."</p><p class="">                "But—"</p><p class="">                "Sammy, <em>stop</em>." He guided them down, covering them with the quilts, tucking them in tight. "We're gonna figure it out. There isn't anything we can't figure out between you and me and Dad and Bobby. No one's hurting you. No one's <em>killing </em>you, that's for sure. Over my dead body, you hear? Now c'mon," he gave him a light squeeze. "You've got to <em>sleep</em>, Sam. You're exhausted. You've been making yourself sick and half-crazy. Trust me."</p><p class="">                Sam nodded, his brown hair tickling Dean's chin. "I trust you," he whispered, clutching at his brothers' shirt.</p><p class="">                "Go to sleep then," Dean coaxed. He leaned on top of his head and started humming something. Sam snorted and smiled, a real smile, when he realized it was Zeppelin's "Rambling On."</p><p class="">                "You singing me a lullaby?"</p><p class="">                "Hey, if you're gonna stick us in a chick flick, I'm going to at least make sure it has a decent soundtrack."</p><p class="">                Sam closed his eyes, exhaustion pooling into his limbs. "Thanks Dean," he murmured.</p><p class="">                "It'll be better when you wake up," Dean soothed. "Promise."</p><p class="">                Sam slept to Dean's low humming. </p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                Bobby was asleep at his desk when he heard the soft sound of footsteps on the stairs and Dean appeared in the doorway. "Sam asleep?"</p><p class="">                "Finally." He glanced behind him before crossing the room. "I don't want to be away too long in case he wakes up and freaks. But he spilled, Bobby."</p><p class="">                The elder hunter listened intently as Dean described what his brother had seen, including the aftermath. Bobby nodded, making a mental checklist: strange eyes, humanoid appearance, ability to move and paralyze humans with the mind, ability to start fire and become invisible. Dean kept his voice low and looked over his shoulder repeatedly, ensuring that Sam was out of sight.</p><p class="">                "Do you think...that thing did something to my brother? Turned him?"</p><p class="">                "The boy's been around salt, silver, and holy water his whole life. He's recited exorcisms in Latin from the time he was eight years old. Can't imagine anything getting through all of that."</p><p class="">                "Bobby, I'm going to tell you this right now," Dean said, his voice suddenly lethal. "Whatever that thing did to Sammy, I am going to find a away to fix him. No one is hurting my brother. I don't care what he turns into. Am I clear?"</p><p class="">                "Boy, who do you think you're talking to?" Bobby snapped.</p><p class="">                "A hunter."</p><p class="">                "Family don't end with blood."</p><p class="">                Dean visibly relaxed. "I'd better head back up. I don't want Sammy to wake up alone."</p><p class="">                "You get some sleep too, kid. That's an order."</p><p class="">                Dean smiled slightly. "Yes, sir."</p><p class="">                Back upstairs, he sank onto the mattress, burrowed under the covers, and pulled Sam back into his arms. His brother sighed and shifted in his sleep, eyes slanting partially open.</p><p class="">                "Dean?" he murmured. "Y'okay?"</p><p class="">                "We're okay, Sammy," Dean soothed. "It's all okay." And then, because Sam was asleep and  there had been dozens of ridiculous, stupid, sugary moments in the past few days and Dean is so Goddamned relieved his brother is <em>speaking</em>, he leans forward and kisses Sam lightly on the top of his head, the way he used to when he was a baby. Sammy sighs and nestles against Dean's shoulder like he belongs there, and when Dean closes his eyes, he knows he does, and even if he doesn't pray he wishes, hopes, <em>swears </em>to the universe that it work as hard as he planned to to keep the kid alive.</p><p class=""> </p><p class=""> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class=""><em><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:</b><br/>October1990. Highly adverse to firearms.<br/></em><em><br/></em>*<br/><br/><em><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/></b></em><em>January1991. Crossed devil's trap without issue.<br/></em></p><p> </p><p></p><div>
  <p>***</p>
</div><p class="">                The next morning finds Bobby in the kitchen making eggs, bacon, and pancakes. Dean arrives with Sam at his side, hand on his shoulder in a casual way the elder hunter can see all too clearly is fiercely protective.</p><p class="">                "Grab plates, knives, forks, you know the drill," Bobby calls. "And Sam, you get your butt in that chair and get ready to strap on the feedbag. No kid's going to starve himself to death under my roof."</p><p class="">                The Winchester boys obediently set the table in record time. Dean pours Sammy a glass of milk and himself coffee, breathing in the smell of bacon with a long sigh.</p><p class="">                "Bobby, if you were gay..."</p><p class="">                "If I was gay I could do a hell of a lot better than <em>you</em>, idgit," he snaps. Dean grins and joins Sammy at the table, and a few minutes later they're all eating--Sammy included. When the youngest Winchester finishes his small helpings Dean adds more, and the brothers exchange a look before Sam begins to chew dutifully. Dean smiles softly to himself and turns back to Bobby.<br/> <br/>                "So, what's on the agenda?"</p><p class="">                "Nothing. I'm calling in sick. You boys should do the same."</p><p class="">                "Oh, we are." Sammy stiffens. Dean ruffles his brother's hair. "We're going into town. Wild Sioux Falls, y'know? Hit the bookstore, see a movie, give Sammy a sip of beer. Going to be crazy."</p><p class="">                "Good." Bobby fished around in his pockets. "Here's a twenty. You boys have fun."</p><p class="">                Sammy had lowered his fork and was looking between his brother and the elder hunter. "Bobby...do you...need help? Around here? I mean...we could...Dean's real good with cars and I could...clean or...help clear scrap."</p><p class="">                "Boy, all I need you to do is get in the car with your brother and let me get a few hours sleep without worrying about you two."</p><p class="">                Dean glanced anxiously at his brother, but Sam smiled softly, and Bobby winked at him.</p><p class="">                Half an hour later the shower's running, and Dean's tossing clothes and sheets in the washer. When Sam finally  emerges in the study he emerges clean, long hair damp and clinging to his forehead, all skinny in jeans, white t-shirt, and flannel over-shirt.</p><p class="">                "Dean hop in the shower?" Bobby asked, and Sam nodded. "Good. First thing I'm gonna do after catching my forty winks."</p><p class="">                The boy watched him for a moment, then said "thanks, Uncle Bobby," so soft Bobby almost didn't hear it.</p><p class="">                He hadn't called him "Uncle" in almost four years.</p><p class="">                "Kid," Bobby said, taking care to move slowly toward the youngest Winchester, hoping not to startle him. "Your Dad...he's tough on you boys. Tougher than me and a lot of others think he should be. But he cares. And he's got me, and Dean, and a hell of a lot of others making sure nothing happens to you." He placed a callused hand on the boy's shoulder, squeezing lightly. "Parents aren't perfect, son. Your Daddy never should have let that reading go down. But you ain't got to worry. I think that brother of yours would blow up the whole damn Midwest if he thought there might be a threat to you."</p><p class="">                Sam smiled—weak, shaky, but it was a smile. Bobby rubbed his head, roughly, relieved that Sam didn't flinch or draw in on himself. "Do me a favor? I left a book on the table, too damn tired to deal with the Latin. Give it a once-over, make those notes of yours, then get the hell into town. Deal?"</p><p class="">                Sam nodded and moved toward the desk. Bobby watched as he scooped up a pen and settled in the seat. The damn thing still dwarfed him, reminding him of toddler Sammy perched beside his father, while John flipped through books with one hand and blocked Sam from sticking whatever object he'd recently discovered <em>must-</em>be-tasted-before-played-with in his little mouth. It was a testimony to his focus: until John Winchester, Bobby had never met a hunter capable of raising children. But John could calmly intercept Sammy's determined little hands, clean a gun, debate an interpretation, and fix Dean a sandwich, all at the same time. He never missed a beat, even when Sammy became frustrated and hurled toy trucks at John's head, or puked down the front of his shirt, or decided the flaming logs in the hearth would be his new best friends. He'd just scoop the little boy up, toss him in the air until he laughed, and then pass him off to Dean.<br/><br/>                And strange as it had been to hear children laughing out in the junkyard, Bobby couldn't say he hadn't secretly loved it. Even if Dean <em>did </em>have a disturbing tendency to play "fetch" with his baby brother, and Sam had an equally disturbing tendency to reach the ball and immediately put it in his mouth, sending Dean sprinting across the yard shouting "No! Sammy, that's bad! Sammy, that's BAAAAAD!"<br/><br/>                Singer chuckled to himself at the memory. Sam's brows lowered as he began making slow, neat notes. He looked all the world like his old man, focused and deep in thought. Bobby felt a swell of pride, even if he couldn't claim them as his own. He stepped into the hall and straight into Dean.</p><p class="">                "Thanks," Dean whispered. Bobby took him down the hall and slipped him another twenty.</p><p class="">                "You take that boy into the little town we got and you guys <em>relax</em>. Try and have fun. Okay?"</p><p class="">                "Bobby," the young man's voice wavered, "I—can't—"</p><p class="">                "You're welcome. Now go look after your brother."</p><p class="">                Dean nodded. Bobby gave him a hard pat on the shoulder and a rare, warm grin, a silent 'attaboy' that Dean so sorely needed. He was rewarded with Dean's almost shy smile, a look so child-like it yanked the elder man's chest, good and hard.<br/>   <br/>                Karen had always said he'd of made a great father.<br/> </p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                That night, Bobby lit a fire and made dinner and the boys slumped together on couch, Sam curled into his brother, Dean draping an arm over him too casually, that way that showed he really was worried and overly-protective but refusing to show it, even if Sam and the rest of the world found it almost painfully obvious. Everything was fine until Sam fell asleep and started to whimper, and Dean pulled him close and hushed him, until Sammy let out a cry to wake the dead.</p><p class="">                "Sam, don't! It's okay, you're okay—" Dean said firmly. Sam let out a gasp and clutched his brother, trembling.</p><p class="">                "Dean," he managed.</p><p class="">                "Yeah," Dean forced a smile and rubbed his brother's head. "Time for bed, kiddo, huh?"</p><p class="">                Sam looked between the two of them and nodded. Dean ruffled his hair and guided him up the steps, and the sound of Sam's laughter drifted down soon after.</p><p class="">                After that, they settle into a routine—the most normal any of them had had in years. They get up by eight and Bobby cooks breakfast while Sam and Dean shower and set the table, and then they eat and the boys do the dishes while Bobby checks messages and lays out the days' work. The boys spar in the yard, Dean guiding gently but firmly, and then they do drills until lunch, which they fix for the three of them. After the dishes are done and the sun is hottest, they gear up and run a few miles, and then they come back, shower again, and do any chores they can find until supper. Bobby cooks dinner and Sam lays out the table while Dean prowls the yard with a list of scrap, and then they eat and chat about Bobby's research. After dinner Dean does the dishes and Bobby takes Sam to the study to work on his Latin, and around nine they all end up huddled together, sometimes talking, sometimes debating interpretations, and sometimes watching some old T.V. movie. Sam eventually gets sleepy and Dean gets them sorted, just like they were kids again, the two of them tucked under the same covers in the same bed, Sam's laughter and Dean's low voice drifting down until there's quiet, and Bobby nods off hearing them through the wall.</p><p class="">                Some nights he jolts to Sam screaming, and then sobbing, and he's always halfway to their room before he hears Dean talking low and soothing and soft, and then he hesitates until he's sure the boys are okay. Dean—tough, cool, unshakeable Dean—is suddenly all gentle, tender 'easy does it,' and 'take a breath' and 'I gotcha, you're alright,' and Sam responds by quieting, and Bobby can't help but feel a flood of affection toward these two boys with nothing to cling to but one another.</p><p class="">                On weekends there are no drills, no runs, and no Latin. Dean gets up extra early and cooks breakfast for all of them, and then takes Sam into town for books and a movie and a meal in a restaurant, even if it's a cheap diner. The rest of the time Dean busies himself with work on a car or two and Sam sits on the porch reading, never far from his brother, occasionally checking the surrounding area for potential threats. Dean always calls out jokes or questions that make Sammy roll his eyes, but once his brother is buried safely under a hood he'll look at him with such adoration and hero worship Bobby can't help but chuckle. If Dean only knew what that kid thought of him, his ego would blow to the size of a planet. It was already halfway there.</p><p class="">                Sweet as it was to see Dean so carefully and lovingly look after Sam, it didn't excuse the fact that Dean was still a child himself. Before this, Sam was generally good about caring for and supporting Dean (in the limited capacity Dean allowed): now, however, he was now far too traumatized but to do anything but cling to his elder brother and stare wide-eyed and wary at the world. Dean, though eagerly rising to the call of duty, was in over his head, trying to do the things he normally did when Sam was down about school or training or having to move—hardly fit for a severe emotional breakdown.<br/><br/>               And, though he strove to hide it, he internalized every one of Sam's panics as some personal failure, and it was all wrong. He may not ever know or admit it, but he needed an parent to guide, a professional to put in perspective, an adult to allow him some childhood. A net of his <em>own </em>to fall on.<br/><br/>                Bobby did his best to provide one. As the weeks went by, the three of them formed their own little cocoon of normal, one that none of them had had before or since. Sammy begins to sleep through the night, first under his brother's arm, then in his own bed. Dean keeps a laser eye on him and, slowly but surely, Sammy gains color and muscle and appetite, is able to sit slightly apart from his brother when they watch T.V., relaxes and laughs and turns into the fourteen year old he was when he arrived. Dean grows tan and straightens his posture, is gradually rougher in sparring with Sam, and the two begin to look not just normal, but happy and <em>healthy</em>.</p><p class="">                The third week goes on, full of the quiet of late fall, the early dark, the proud stars. And then the Impala pulls into the yard and, a story above, Sam wakes screaming.</p><p class=""> </p><p class=""> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class=""><em><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:</b><br/>February 1991. Comfortably navigates Church altars and sacristies.  <br/></em><em><br/></em>*<br/><br/><em><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/></b></em><em>March 1991. Produces effective batches of holy water.</em></p><p></p><div>
  <p>***</p>
</div><p class="">      </p><p class="">               "He <em>still </em>didn't tell you what he saw?"</p><p class="">                John and Bobby held glasses of whiskey in their hands. Above them, Sam had quieted, but only under nearly an hour of Dean's soothing voice, and Bobby, knew, his arm and the guest room blankets.</p><p class="">                "I can't even believe you care while your boys are hurting."</p><p class="">                John stared him down calmly. "Sam can handle whatever was flung at him. And Dean always handles Sam."</p><p class="">                "Your <em>son </em>didn't talk for <em>days</em>, while the other was half outta his head worryin'. It's not right. Those boys are tough, but they need their father."</p><p class="">                "They need their father to <em>protect</em> them. And the only way to protect them is to kill the thing that came into their home and killed their mother."</p><p class="">                "Are you not <em>hearing </em>me? Sam wouldn't<em> speak</em>. He wouldn't sleep or <em>eat.</em> And Dean...he's just a kid himself. Dealing with that level of trauma—"</p><p class="">                "The boys take care of each other. They always have."</p><p class="">                "Damnit John, what other choice have you given them?"</p><p class="">                "Singer, you don't know anything about raising children." John threw back his drink and glared. Bobby drew a slow breath.</p><p class="">                "You're right," Bobby shot. "I'm not a father. Or a brother. Or a husband anymore. I don't know what it's like to try and raise boys in this lifestyle, or to not know what killed your wife. But I'll tell you what I <em>do </em>know, and it's that those kids need their Daddy."</p><p class="">                "And here I am. I always come back for them. They know that."</p><p class="">                "After the storm," Bobby huffed.</p><p class="">                "If I <em>recall</em>, Singer, <em>you </em>were the one who wanted me out in the first place. Not my boys."</p><p class="">                Bobby spun on his heel and reached for the folder he'd brought in from the study, plopping it in front of John. "Julian Masters," he spat, "or, as he was born, David Ross-Kemp." John flipped open the folder. "Born in Connecticut, moved around to private schools in Europe and the North-East. IQ off the charts. Bunch of suspensions related to, as the WASPS put it, 'inappropriate discussions.' My guess is, he was showing off his...<em>abilities </em>to people who weren't all that interested."</p><p class="">                "I've read up on him," John snapped, shoving the papers aside.</p><p class="">                "Then you also know six of his <em>witnesses </em>are in mental institutions, four committed suicide, and five more have been labeled 'severely mentally ill' by their doctors?"</p><p class="">                "Julian said a great many of his clients were dealing with the fall-out of their recovered memories. He brought them to consciousness to try to help. They were on edge long before he saw them."</p><p class="">                "Was Sam?"</p><p class="">                John polished off his drink. "Fourteen years I've had my boys on the road," he said slowly. "I never meant it to be this long. I meant to kill it and stop, give them a home, give them <em>stability. </em>Here Dean's dropped out and at this rate, Sammy'll be repeating freshmen year."</p><p class="">                "So why don't you? Stop?"</p><p class="">                "Because that <em>thing </em>is still out there!" John slammed his fist into the table. "Damnit, Bobby, it came into my home and killed once! What the hell is going to stop it from doing it again? What's to stop <em>any </em>of those filthy things from hurting my boys, if not <em>me</em>?"</p><p class="">                Bobby snatched up the bottle of Jack and dumped a load into John's glass. "Look...you were a soldier. In a war that went on and on and on, and was ended, not because we won, but because <em>we didn't have a damn choice. </em>It was stop or let our boys be unnecessarily <em>slaughtered</em>. You understand?"</p><p class="">                "What would you have me do?"</p><p class="">                "Settle down, at least long enough for Sam to get back on his feet. Hell, stay here, or let the boys for all I care."</p><p class="">                John's eyes narrowed: his posture, stiffened. "Listen, Bobby, I appreciate what you've done for me and my boys. But they're <em>not</em> yours. And you're not taking them as some...substitute."</p><p class="">                Bobby felt himself prickle, even as he struggled not to give in to his friend's provocation. "Damnit to hell, John, I ain't tryin' to turn this into a surrogate-family-thing. I'm tryin' to give you a damn <em>reality </em>check. Those boys of yours aren't going to be <em>boys </em>forever. You've said yourself Sam's been speaking up. And Dean ain't lookin' out for anyone but Sam."</p><p class="">                "They spend a few weeks here and you think know them best?" John snapped. "Sorry, that's not how I'm seein' it."</p><p class="">                "Goddamn it, could you, just <em>once,</em> put <em>them </em>first!"</p><p class="">                "I <em>am </em>putting them first!" John leapt to his feet, chair clattering to the floor. "That <em>thing </em>came in to my infant son's <em>nursery</em>! Killed my wife, and would have killed him! Could <em>still </em>kill him, and Dean! And everywhere I turned, everyone thought I was nuts for thinking it!"</p><p class="">                "That's the <em>past,</em>" Bobby growled. "You're surrounded by people who understand. Who know loss like you've known it. And who will <em>never </em>have what you do, which is two strong, smart boys who would <em>fight </em>for him. Who <em>have</em>."</p><p class="">                "Two boys who I'm taking with me," John hissed. "Who belong with their father. Their <em>real</em> father."</p><p class="">                "You—you're a goddamn sonofabitch, you know that?"</p><p class="">                "I'm going to get them." John started for the stairs. Bobby intercepted.</p><p class="">                "The <em>hell </em>you are! It's past one in the morning. Sam was screaming less than an hour ago. You let them sleep and you cool off."</p><p class="">                "I'm not leaving without my children."</p><p class="">                "Julian tell you that? Huh? You haven't said a word about what he's said to you."</p><p class="">                "It's not your damn business."</p><p class="">                "It is absolutely—that reading went down in <em>my </em>home. Your <em>son </em>wouldn't <em>speak</em>!"</p><p class="">                "I'm getting my boys."</p><p class="">                "No."</p><p class="">                "I <em>said</em>, I'm getting my boys."</p><p class="">                "Yeah you did." Bobby moved eye-to-eye with the other hunter. "And. I. Said. <em>No.</em>"</p><p class="">                John slammed his fist into his friend's face. Bobby stumbled backward, hand going out and finding the shotgun he left propped by the stairs. He seized the barrel and whirled, unleashing the safety on the eldest Winchester.</p><p class="">                "Rocksalt?" John asked.</p><p class="">                "Solid silver bullets." Bobby cocked the second barrel. "If you think I'll let <em>anyone </em>raise a hand to me in my own house, or raise a hand to your boys—think again."</p><p class="">                "You won't ever us see us back here."</p><p class="">                "Three..."</p><p class="">                "I'll have social services on you for taking them so fast you won't blink."</p><p class="">                "Two..."</p><p class="">                "They'll come when I call," John backed away and stomped toward the door. "They always do."</p><p class="">                It took of Bobby's willpower not to fire on his closed door for—what he told himself was—good measure.<br/> </p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                Dean groaned as his cell rang, over and over, some awesome rock song he hated at the moment. He'd just drifted back off after spending a good half-hour wrestling Sammy down from a night-terror, and was in no mood to deal with anything that was annoyingly awake. As if sensing his wrath, the phone went silent, and Dean sighed in relief and closed his eyes.<br/><br/>                The phone sang out again. Across the short distance between their beds, Sam moaned.</p><p class="">                "S'okay," Dean mumbled, fumbling in the dark toward the glowing screen. "Got it, Sammy. S'okay."</p><p class="">                "Hm," Sam murmured, burrowing deeper under the covers. Dean flipped open his phone. "Yeah?"</p><p class="">                "Dean, it's me. Be outside in ten."</p><p class="">                "Who's it?"</p><p class="">                "<em>Dean</em>. It's Dad."</p><p class="">                "Dad." Dean sat up, ramrod straight. Sam whimpered slightly, yanking the blankets high enough until he was nothing but a spray of brown hair on the pillow.</p><p class="">                "Outside in ten. There's no coming back, so be packed."</p><p class="">                "But—sir—"</p><p class="">                "<em>Now</em>!" John barked.</p><p class="">                 The call cut off. Dean looked from it to his younger brother. One side of his brain was running orders—get up, get dressed, get Sammy up and dressed, get their laundry in their duffels, grab phone chargers, check that Sammy's got his books—and the other was running a litany of <em>shit shit shit shit double-o-shit. </em></p><p class="">Sammy had been on the mend. He could sleep alone, and once and awhile even made it through the night. He ate without protest, even if it wasn't as much. He spoke...not like before, but at least he didn't go into speech-comas. He laughed again...maybe didn't smile as much, but still...</p><p class="">                <em>Godamnit</em>, Sam was <em>not</em> ready to face their father. Sure as hell not at two in the morning with a nightmare a mere twenty minutes behind them. Forget tight-rope: Dean was about to walk on a goddamn shoestring.</p><p class="">                <em>Deep breaths. Game face. </em></p><p class="">                "Sammy," he tried. Sam didn't stir. "Sam...hey." Dean got to his feet and shook his younger brother. Sam sighed and turned over, face appearing beneath the blankets.</p><p class="">                "What?"</p><p class="">                "Dad's outside."</p><p class="">                "'kay."</p><p class="">                "He wants us to meet him."</p><p class="">                "'kay."</p><p class="">                "Sammy, <em>now</em>."</p><p class="">                "Hm," Sam's eyes opened. "Dean?"</p><p class="">                "C'mon. We gotta go."</p><p class="">                "Now?" Sam rubbed his eyes, sitting up, glancing to the clock on the mutual nightstand. "It's two in the morning..."</p><p class="">                "Dad's outside."</p><p class="">                "Dad." Sam paled. "Dean—does he—"</p><p class="">                "No. I didn't tell him anything." Dean began cramming their laundry into his duffel. They could sort it later. "But he's been out and about with Julian what's-his-face, so by now he should of figured out the guy's a quack."</p><p class="">                Sam didn't answer. He watched as Dean tossed their few things into a bag and ducked into the bathroom, emerging in jeans and a flannel-shirt over his t-shirt.</p><p class="">                "C'mon, Sammy. Up-and-at'em."</p><p class="">                "Dean..." Sam's voice dies. Dean zips up the bag, then plops on the bed facing him.</p><p class="">                "Listen to me," he says firmly, "whatever Dad does or doesn't know doesn't matter. I'm here. No one's hurting you. Understood?" Sam nods. Dean tosses him a pair of jeans. "C'mon, suit up. We'll bunk in the car."</p><p class="">                Bobby's at the foot of the stairs when they come down, face inexplicably sad. He embraces Sam tightly, rubs the back of his head, and pats him on the shoulder when he pulls away. Dean he nearly crushes, gripping hard, voice shaky in his ear.</p><p class="">                "You don't trust anyone," he hisses. "You go with your gut, and you take damn good care of yourself and your brother. You hear?"</p><p class="">                "Yes, sir," Dean says, baffled and trying not to show it. Dean could have sworn he saw moisture in the elder hunter's eyes, but he re-focused on his brother, grabbing up the kid's duffel and strolling them both down the porch-steps to Impala.</p><p class="">                "Hi Dad," he called, overly cheerful. Sam's hands caught in his jacket as he unlocked the trunk with his own set of keys and tossed their bags in. He slipped an arm around his brother's shoulder guided him to the back door, giving him a gentle nudge into the backseat. He made sure Sammy's door was firmly shut before circling around the trunk and ducking in on the other side.</p><p class="">                Dean had long-ago learned how to sleep sitting up in the front seat, letting Sammy spread out on the back-bench. Now, however, Dean slid in with his brother, placing himself directly behind his father, in line of the rear-view mirror.</p><p class="">                "Boys," their Dad said. His voice sounded rough, and Dean smelled whiskey.</p><p class="">                "What'd you bag?" Dean asked. Sam was rigid against his door, both hands wrapped around the handle, as if he might bolt.</p><p class="">                "Nothing of interest." John's eyes stayed on his youngest. Dean reached across the seat and unceremoniously yanked Sam sideways so his brother's head rested in his lap, out of John's sight and away from his escape-hatch. The younger Winchester brother curled instantly against him, eyes shut, knees pressed close to his stomach. Dean scratched his head affectionately as the engine rumbled to life.</p><p class="">                "Dean," John said, glancing in the rear-view mirror. "You wanna ride shotgun?"</p><p class="">                Dean locked eyes with his father, then calmly dropped his arm over Sam's back and rubbed his thumb absently on his brother's skinny arm.</p><p class="">                "No, sir," he said cooly.</p><p class="">                John was the first to look away.   </p><p class=""> </p><p class=""> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class=""><em><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:</b><br/>July1991. Comfortable starting fires on corpses and wood.<br/></em><em><br/></em>*<br/><br/><em><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/></b></em><em>August 1991. No reaction to solid silver crucifix.<br/></em></p><p> </p><p></p><div>
  <p>***</p>
</div><p class="">               Sam had been trying, for Dean's sake, to get himself back to normal. He'd seen the exhaustion in his brother's eyes, heard the litany of jokes Dean kept at him during the day, saw him shoot out of bed every morning in an evangelical effort to keep things as normal and stable as possible.</p><p class="">                During the day, he followed Dean's routine to the letter, did his best to be agreeable, to laugh and eat and be something of a companion. At night, though, his fears would catch up with him, and even if he managed to drift off to an easy sleep, it never lasted. When he woke up shaking and crying, Dean's steady nature, his complete denial of fear, his assurance that he'd handle anything that came their way—things that Sam normally saw as somewhat delusional—were nothing less than salvation.  Dean was sure and strong and never balked no matter how terrified and lost he was; he just talked and hummed and rubbed Sam's back until the panic eased, and then held him tight until he slept.</p><p class="">                Dean didn't do this. <em>They </em>didn't do this. Even as kids, Sam couldn't remember Dean ever being this physically affectionate—which wasn't to say Dean didn't make him feel loved. No. It was easier for Dean to break into houses to steal Christmas presents or cut the throats of monsters  charging his kid brother than to hug Sam and say "I love you," but that was Dean, and Sam wasn't complaining. There wasn't anything on earth Dean wouldn't conquer or kill to protect him, and Sam had always known that—known and tried to emulate Dean's cool, easy calm and confidence. And when Dean couldn't hug, well—he never pushed him away when Sam couldn't resist.</p><p class="">                To see his brother put aside all his usual rules  to try to soothe Sam just wasn't par for the course. It was scary. Dean regularly tried to make Sam's life easier and more comfortable, but this...</p><p class="">                Sam didn't have words. Just like when he'd first woken from the regression and realized he'd lost all language. He could still read, and write, and from time to time recognized specific words when spoken to. But he couldn't formulate sentences or comprehend long, spoken phrases. In the vision, he could recognize the sounds of certain people, and their faces would come to mind—Mom, Dad, Dean—but none of the words processed. It didn't take him long to realize, when he woke, that it hadn't faded.</p><p class="">                Even worse, all food and drink had the aftertaste of whatever had been dribbled over his lips, and Sam could never be sure if it was remembrance or if this was it: his family had decided to put him down.</p><p class="">                And then, after days of Dean coaxing and hugging and prompting, out of the blue, Sam woke up on the couch and could understand the television. He'd sat up, double-checked that he was in the room alone, and tested his voice.</p><p class="">                "Dean," he said. Clear and easy. "Dean is my brother. John is my Dad. Bobby is our friend."</p><p class="">                It was time. He didn't know how long this would last. He needed to make it clear, right away, that he couldn't take the wait anymore. Dean needed to end things while Sam was lucid enough for them to say whatever needed to be said before taking him out.</p><p class="">                In retrospect, he felt like an idiot for ever assuming Dean would do it. As Dean carried him, he owed it to his brother to carry the fear.  And try to stay alert enough to ensure his father heard his last requests before John ended him as he ended all <em>things—</em>mercilessly.</p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                They'd been back on the road two days before John finally settled himself in a chair across from their beds and cleared his throat in the way that signaled 'big talk.' Dean had been ruffling through his duffel but turned, looked from his dad to Sam, and strode across the short space between their beds to sink beside his  brother.</p><p class="">                "Sir?" Dean asked.</p><p class="">                John drew a deep breath. "I owe you both an apology." It was about as sincere and mellow as Sam had ever seen his Dad, but it didn't stop him from edging ever-so-slightly closer to Dean. His elder brother gave him a light shoulder-bump in return. "When he put you under...he'd sworn nothing he would do would hurt. That it had helped in the past. I should have looked into him further."</p><p class="">                "Where did you go, Dad? What is it you found?"</p><p class="">                "Nothing." John turned his focus to Sam. "Sammy...I'm sorry for leaving like that. I really thought it'd be best for you to have some time to rest while we tried to figure out what it was you saw."</p><p class="">                Sam fought not to shake. Dean's arm draped over his shoulders: a thick, casual guard.</p><p class="">                "So? What was it?"</p><p class="">                "We're not sure. The symbols weren't clear. We checked all sorts of languages, but Julian wasn't familiar with them. He did feel that it took something with some heavy-duty psychic weight to lock up an unconscious like that. We're not talking just a mind-reader. This thing could <em>encode</em>."</p><p class="">                "What else did he say?"</p><p class="">                "That we needed to find out what Sam saw in order to narrow the field."</p><p class="">                Dean tensed beside him. Sam took a deep breath.</p><p class="">                "So...he didn't tell you?"</p><p class="">                "No, Sammy, he said he couldn't see. The...power that released when he opened the lock blocked his ability to share the vision."</p><p class="">                Dean's thumb moved in a slow, soft motion on his shoulder. Sam could feel his heart speeding up.</p><p class="">                "Listen, boys...I don't want to argue. I know this didn't go down the way he wanted or the way I expected. But I still got to know if you saw anything. Anything that could put us on its trail."</p><p class="">                "Dad, I don't think—"</p><p class="">                "<em>Dean</em>. Let Sam answer for himself."</p><p class="">                Sam took a steady breath. He'd been weighing this discussion over and over and decided it wouldn't hurt just to tell his father about the man-thing: his eyes, his coat, the cold. That little bit of info would explain enough about the reading and give John something to work with, while he and Dean figured out what it may have done to him.      </p><p class="">                "I—" Sudden, violent pain shot through his head. The room blinked out in a vicious flash of white, and he was back in the crib, in the cold. He gasped, gripping his head. The motel room appeared once more.</p><p class="">                "Sammy?" Dean called.</p><p class="">                "<em>No,</em>" Sam groaned.</p><p class="">                "It's okay, Sammy, don't—"</p><p class="">                Sam couldn't move. He could only lay on his back and stare as the mobile sang and danced above him. Safety, home. And then...cold. Burning throat. Yellow eyes. Wrong wrong wrong wrong—</p><p class="">                Sam felt his knees hit the floor. He dug his hands into his eyes, trying to block out the agonizing flashes of light, the distant sound of a woman's screams. And a deep, hungry growl that inflamed the dull burn in his throat.</p><p class="">                "Sammy! What is it? Sam!"</p><p class="">                "Sam, son, answer us!"</p><p class="">                Sam came back to the room with a jolt. He flailed out, accidently striking his father's face and Dean's chest before they both got a grip on him. He was back on the couch at Bobby's as the psychic ripped his mind in half. He was on his back in a crib. He was on the floor with Dad and Dean.</p><p class="">                He was a monster, a monster, a <em>monster—</em></p><p class="">                "Shh, Sam, shhh, it's okay, you're okay, buddy." Dean pulled him in, pressing Sam's head so his chin hooked over his shoulder, leaving Sam a clear view of the room. "We gotcha."</p><p class="">                "Has this been happening the whole time?" Dad's voice edged on fear, something Sam had <em>never </em>heard from him. Dean didn't answer—or, at least, didn't give an answer Sam could see.</p><p class="">                "Take it easy," he soothed. A hand too large to belong to Dean rested on Sam's forehead, than touched his neck.</p><p class="">                "Sam, what happened?"</p><p class="">                "Dad, <em>please—</em>"</p><p class="">                "Dean, I've got to know what that <em>was</em>! It looked like a seizure!"</p><p class="">                "No, he's—he's not ready to talk yet."</p><p class="">                "Don't <em>baby </em>him, for God's sake. If something like this is happening to your brother, I've got to know." Johnleaned into Sam's vision. "Sammy?"</p><p class="">                Sam managed to raise his arms and clutch Dean's shirt, although he didn't have even half his normal strength. "It's okay," he managed, his voice cracking. "I'm—I'm okay."</p><p class="">                "What happened? What hurt?"</p><p class="">                Head. Eyes. Throat. Body in the cold. Body in the flames. Want out. Want out want out want <em>out</em>.</p><p class="">                "All right, Sammy, easy does it. C'mon." Sam felt himself being prodded along<span class=""><ins>,</ins></span> and then the bed sank beneath him as Dean's face appeared over him. "You gotta breathe slow, kiddo, or you'll pass right out."</p><p class="">                Sam couldn't get enough air. The smoke—the fire—the icy, evil cold—</p><p class="">                A warm palm pressed against his racing heart and rubbed a soothing circle. "Deep breath," Dean coaxed. "Match me, okay?"</p><p class="">                He couldn't focus enough, but his brother's warm hand and gentle voice and reassuring smile broke some of the terror. He could still vaguely feel  being placed in Dean's small arms and carried away, far from the flames, from the cold. Dean had him. The <em>thing</em> couldn't get through.</p><p class="">                "Attaboy," Dean grinned, squeezing his shoulder. "That's enough for tonight, huh? Y'wanna go get cleaned up, get ready to hit they hay?"</p><p class="">                Sam managed a nod. Dean kept a hand on his back while Sam sat up, gathered his pajamas, and went into the bathroom. He cranked the shower on hot and then hovered by the door, listening as his brother's and father's voices rumbled through. He stayed under the water only long enough to ensure they wouldn't suspect he'd been listening, then opened the door.</p><p class="">                <em>Just like in Bobby's kitchen, </em>he told himself. <em>You understand what has to be done.</em></p><p class="">                "I'm ready," he said softly, eyes locking on his father's, so he wouldn't have to see his brother turn white.</p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                At lunch the next day, Sam forgot how to use a fork, knife, and spoon.</p><p class="">                One minute he was listening to his father's version of Rawhead 101; the next, his hand went limp, and Dean and John both started as the fork hit the cheap ceramic diner plate with a ridiculously loud echo. Sam stared at the food in front of him and—though he knew, moments earlier, it had made perfect sense—had no idea what to do.</p><p class="">                "Sammy?" Dean asked.</p><p class="">                "Sorry," he mumbled. He meets his  brother's eyes, then looked back at his dad.</p><p class="">                "You all right?" John said, softer than usual.</p><p class="">                "Yes, sir. You were saying—"</p><p class="">                John eyed him for a moment before continuing. Sam stole looks at the neighboring tables, trying to find anyone else using silverware to help jar his memory -- but, like his brother and father, most of the patrons had burgers or some other type of sandwich and hadn't touched their utensils.</p><p class="">                Sam couldn't remember the name of what he had been eating, but he knew he needed the things next to his plate to eat it. Or at least, to eat it without drawing attention.</p><p class="">                "Hey." Dean shoulder-bumped him playfully. "You got a ways to go there, bud. No more hunger-strikes."</p><p class="">                Dad's eyes were on him too. Sam did his best impression of Dean's game-face.</p><p class="">                "Can we get it to go?"</p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                In the middle of the night, Sam woke to find he could barely move.</p><p class="">                He could kick in little, weak bursts,  twitch his hands, and turn his head, but his whole body felt small and strangely underdeveloped, as if he'd been in a coma or an accident. He tried to call for Dean, and all that came out was a strange little mewing sound, a gurgle he knew all too well meant he'd lost speech once more.</p><p class="">                He stared at the ceiling as the occasional passing lights of cars illuminated a small, swaying mobile.</p><p class="">                He fell back asleep before his mother could scream.</p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                Dean somehow talked their Dad into giving them an afternoon off from training and took Sam to the bookstore. He was tossing jokes and jabs and telling stories to try to elicit a laugh, and Sam did his best to smile or chuckle where hewas supposed to. His brother was never as funny, or as reckless, as he was when he was scared. The humor Sam could manage, but he didn't know what he'd do if Dean started throwing himself deliberately in harm's way.</p><p class="">                "These places always have music going that makes me want to fall asleep. If they want people to get pumped about reading, they ought to play something that makes you want to run victory laps through the stacks."</p><p class="">                "People come here to <em>read</em>,” Sam said. “You need focus."</p><p class="">                "I'm just saying—imagine walking through the doors, and they start blaring the <em>Rocky </em>theme. If I heard that every time we got near books, I might get pumped to spend two hours with you shopping for them."</p><p class="">                "Imagine actually trying to <em>read </em>and the <em>Rocky </em>theme keeps blaring."</p><p class="">                "Exactly! And you're like—yeah...one sentence down! Now two! Gonna fly now...page turn!"</p><p class="">                Sam's laugh was genuine. He reached for a book displayed at the end of the history section and flipped it open to find the pages filled with bizarre symbols, some shimmering with flashes of yellow. He slammed the cover shut and discovered he couldn't make out the words on any of the spines.</p><p class="">                "Sam?"</p><p class="">                Sam's heart began to pound. He reached for another, flipped to the middle, and, yet again, saw nothing but symbols with faint, light yellow glitter. He slammed it shut and steadied himself.</p><p class="">                <em>Speech came back. Language came back. Words will come back too.<br/></em></p><p class="">
  <em>                Cold cold cold—</em>
</p><p class="">"Sammy?"</p><p class="">                Dean's voice wavered. Sam turned to his brother and forced a grin. "How about a movie instead?"</p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                He and Dean were splitting a pizza when Sam choked. He darted out of his chair and to the bathroom, throwing himself over the toilet as the food came  out in coughing gasps . Dean charged in after him, calling his name while Sam retched half-chewed cheese into the toilet.</p><p class="">                "Jesus, Sammy," Dean breathed. "What the hell was that? It looked like you froze mid-swallow."</p><p class="">                "Ugh," Sam spat, keeping his eyes clothed to prevent his stomach from rebelling further. He didn't know how to tell Dean that he <em>knew</em>, from here on out, that he wouldn't be able to swallow solid food.</p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                That night, he lay awake, listening to his dad and Dean's soft, sleepy breathing, and watched the ceiling burn.</p><p class=""> </p><p class=""> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p></p><div>
  <p><em><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:</b><br/>December 1991. Accidentally cut left hand on machete blade. Stitched with silver needle/cleaned with holy water.<br/></em><em><br/></em>*</p>
  <p><em><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/></b>February </em> <em>1992. Expressed doubt over a priest's ability to converse in tongues.</em></p>
</div><div>
  <p><br/>***</p>
</div><p>            Sam doesn't sleep: he lies awake, feeling exhausted and scared and angry and a million other things that come so fast he can't name them.</p><p>             Dean doesn't sleep because two feet away, his brother is falling apart.</p><p class="">            John doesn't sleep because he's working a job.</p><p class="">            Dean thinks of those precious few weeks at Bobby's—the sense of comfort and safety and <em>home</em>and how hard he'd worked to get Sam back from that terrible darkness they'd spent those lonely few days in. It had taken awhile, but Sam <em>had </em>recovered, at least enough that he was functioning and not completely unhappy. But all the tricks he'd used to get his brother back weren't possible with their father's iron rule on their schedule. And even if he <em>had </em>apologized, he didn't seem to grasp the extent or severity of Sam's...condition.</p><p class="">            For their first few days on the road, Sam had done good—he ate what he managed at Bobby's, slept in a bed of his own, stuck close to Dean but wasn't <em>welded</em> to him.</p><p class="">            But it didn't last.</p><p class="">            And as much as he wanted to throw the blame on John for pushing too hard too fast, this went deeper. Suddenly Sammy avoided anything he couldn't eat with his hands—and he ate far less. His nightmares returned and, worse yet, he hardly seemed aware that he was crying out in the night. He stopped reading, something he'd always done voraciously, and began lapsing back into long periods of silence.</p><p class="">            New symptoms began to manifest too—Sam rubbed his temples as if his head ached, started when he saw his reflection, occasionally rubbed at his neck as if his throat hurt.</p><p class="">            So Dean didn't sleep. Anytime his brother jolted, or whimpered, or made small, gasping breaths, he wanted to go to him, wake him, soothe him as he'd been free to do at Bobby's. But their father had always been insistent, even when Sam was a baby, that he be able to sleep on his own (although before their Dad began leaving them for longer and longer periods of time, the boys often ended up crammed together by necessity) and Dean wasn't sure he could brave the distaste and disapproval his father would cast his way if he moved to comfort his brother in the night. </p><p class="">            Dean relaxed his shoulders.</p><p class="">            Sam gasped.</p><p class="">            Dean counted ghouls and gravestones.</p><p class="">            Sam sobbed.</p><p class="">            Dean thought about how warm the blankets were, how soft the pillows.</p><p class="">            Sam moaned.</p><p class="">            John called, "Sammy, it's a dream."</p><p class="">            Dean's gut rolled.</p><p class="">            When Sam jolted awake once more, whimpering and flailing weakly against the blankets, Dean had had enough. He tossed the covers aside, patted across the floor, and slid into bed behind his brother.</p><p class="">            "Easy, Sammy," he whispered. Sam's hand instantly clamped onto his arm and held tight. "Take it easy there, bud. I gotcha."</p><p class="">            "Dean," John called. Sam shivered. Dean drew him tighter.</p><p class="">            "You're safe, Sam."</p><p class="">            "Go on back to bed now," John ordered. Dean ignored him.</p><p class="">            "C'mon, kiddo. Don't check out on me again. I'm not leaving you, so don't you dare leave me."</p><p class="">            "Can—" his voice hitched, whispered and scratchy, "can you...stay?"</p><p class="">            "Sure." He hooked the covers over them both. "M'right here. We're all right."</p><p class="">            "Dean," their father said. Dean leaned his chin on top of his brother's hair and began to hum. Against him he felt Sam's silent, wracking sobs, and squeezed him lightly.</p><p class="">            "S'okay Sammy," he murmured. "Just like at Bobby's. You just hang on, and I'll look after us. Nothing's getting through. Y'hear?"      </p><p class="">            "You—won't—" Sam's chest hitched. "You won't...let me hurt you, right?"</p><p class="">            "No way. Nothing's hurting us."</p><p class="">            "Even—even if you have to—"</p><p class="">            "<em>Nothing</em>, Sam." His brother shook beneath him. "Make you a deal? You close your eyes, and I'll sing a request."</p><p class="">            "How about...don't?"</p><p class="">            "C'mon—girly as you want."</p><p class="">            "I <em>want </em>you to stop singing. Forever."</p><p class="">            "You're getting Zep if you don't pick."</p><p class="">            Sam leaned back against his brother and shut his eyes. "Zep's...all right," he mumbled. Dean smiled and leaned over him again, humming softly.</p><p class="">            Sammy relaxed against him, his breathing evening out, exhaustion—emotional and physical—winning over. Dean closed his eyes, feeling the small, warm body against his own, remembering his brother just a few weeks earlier telling him, <em>I want to be normal </em>and he thinking, <em>God, Sammy, that's all I want for you too. To be safe and happy. God, I'd give anything to know you were safe and happy. </em></p><p class="">"You boys are too old for this." John was standing over him, but talking low enough not to disturb Sam. Dean set his jaw.</p><p class="">            "You weren't there, Dad. It wasn't <em>Sammy</em>. He was so scared he couldn't speak."</p><p class="">            "It's hard to see what he saw. But he's on his feet now."</p><p class="">            Dean drew a slow breath. "Dad...did you know what this would do to him?"</p><p class="">            John frowned. "Julian told me what he told you. That he could get a look at it."</p><p class="">            "He said he wasn't sure. That he'd have to try and see."</p><p class="">            "We gotta do what it takes to end this. For all of us."</p><p class="">            Dean turned away, swallowed hard, and tucked his brother's hair completely beneath his chin. From Sam's breathing, Dean knew he was awake. Quiet, still, but the rise and fall of his chest was slightly more shallow. Dean silently hoped his father wouldn't say anything Sam could load as ammo or that would push him further into his silences.</p><p class="">            "Dad," he said softly, "Sam needs to feel safe in order to talk. Okay?"</p><p class="">            His father's eyes narrowed. "He told you."</p><p class="">            "What?"</p><p class="">            "He told you what he saw."</p><p class="">            Sam stiffened under his arm. Dean tightened his grip. "It took almost a <em>week</em> to—"</p><p class="">            "You tell me. If he won't, then you will."</p><p class="">            Sam locked beneath him. Dean closed his eyes. "No."</p><p class="">            "Sorry?"       </p><p class="">            "<em>No</em>. You need to hear it from Sam. And he needs to <em>trust</em> you to talk."</p><p class="">            "What is that supposed to mean?"</p><p class="">            Dean took a deep breath, feeling Sam shiver beneath him, "Sam didn't talk...for<em> days. </em>And all I wanted...all <em>Bobby </em>wanted, was to give him a place that was safe. We've got to give him that again."</p><p class="">            "You're saying I don't?"</p><p class="">            "Yes!" Sam pushed slightly against him, and Dean went on. "Dad, he thought we'd <em>kill </em>him. You've got to tell him he's wrong. You've got to tell him what you know and let us help. Please, Dad, I—" his voice cracked. "I miss Sammy...as he was. We can help him. But you've got to step up."</p><p class="">            "You watch it." Dean felt his own body tense, held Sam closer. Wished Sam would <em>sleep</em>. "Dean, what your brother saw, it's the only—"</p><p class="">            "You've got to ask <em>Sam."</em></p><p class="">“I’m asking <em>you</em>.”</p><p class="">            Dean's gut wrenched. Never in his life had he felt so torn between his family: if he gave in to  his father, he'd lose Sam; if he gave in to Sam, he'd lose his father. And between the two of them, all he could think was: what had happened, <em>really </em>happened, that he couldn't reconcile them?</p><p class="">            "Dad...whatever it is Sammy tells me...and <em>you</em> tell me...that's sacred. Do you get that? He wouldn't <em>speak, </em>I'd never just...just...tell what he said. We've got to—"</p><p class="">            "For God's sake, Dean, we're hunting the thing that killed your mother! There is nothing, <em>nothing</em>, more important. It's worth <em>everything.</em> You understand?"</p><p class="">            Dean took a deep, slow breath. "No."</p><p class="">            John glowered. "Excuse me?"</p><p class="">            "No, Dad—it's not—" his voice cracked, "it's not worth <em>Sam</em>!" John jerked back as if struck. "Not to me," Dean continued. "And not to Mom either."</p><p class="">            John hovered by the bed for a moment more, than slowly retreated back to the table. He was gone come dawn.</p><p class="">***</p><p class="">            For the first time in his life, Dean was thrilled his father was gone.</p><p class="">            Alone with Sam, Dean relaunched his full-throttle campaign to create a safe, stable environment. He went out early for breakfast and talked cheerily while Sam rose and washed up, and then they'd spar and go for a run. After showering, they'd  go out for lunch, and then spend time in town—sometimes at the movies, sometimes in a bookstore or a library, sometimes watching a local baseball or football game. In the late afternoon Dean gave Sam mini-lessons on the weapons, and they'd target shoot. Then dinner—which, more often than not, consisted of Dean hunting down something more liquid than solid and practically force-feeding Sam--before they settled in for the evening. Dean let Sammy pick what they watched and kept the mood light and easy, and himself close. The heavy talks were for the middle of the night when Sam woke panicked, and between the tears, the dark, and Dean's soft voice, he was able to piece together some  of his pain and let Dean help carry it.</p><p class="">            But unlike at Bobby's, Sam didn't improve.</p><p class="">            His eating regressed right back to barely anything, and no amount of coaxing could get him to try. He sat at the foot of the bed the way he'd sat on the hood of the old Mazda: still, silent, and unresponsive. </p><p class="">            With their dad gone, Dean started sharing Sam's bed again, finding it calmed the nightmares a bit, even if his brother wasn't recovering otherwise. And, when he did wake in terror, Dean was right there, ready to help. </p><p class="">            He warred with the little voice, growing louder, that Sam was lost to him. </p><p class="">***</p><p class="">           <em>Dad gone. Mom gone. Dean gone. </em><br/><br/>           <em>Cold cold cold. <br/> <br/>           </em>Sam could see puffs of his own breath in the dark now. He slept on his side, gripping the mattress, because then, at least, when the flames started, they were less likely to wake him.<br/><br/>           Dean was bunking with him again, as he had when Sam had first lost language. He'd readjusted their routine, found shakes and soups and juices that went down his resistant throat with ease. He'd snuck them into more movies in the past few weeks than they'd seen in the past few years.<br/><br/>           Sam didn't have the heart to tell him it wasn't any use. That half the time he could only guess at what people said to him. That the other half, letters were nothing but glittering gold wards.<br/><br/>           That he'd miss him, he'd miss him so <em>much</em>, when their Dad ended it and his deformed soul was cast down to hell.<br/><br/>           The third night their dad was gone, Sam woke sobbing, fists clutched in his pillow, choking on the memory of something <em>evil </em>falling between his lips. Dean rolled over and yanked him close. </p><p class="">            "Shhhh," Dean breathed into his brother's hair. "Easy, bud."</p><p class="">            "Dad <em>hates </em>me," he wept.</p><p class="">            "No, Sam—"</p><p class="">            "He'll kill me. He's going to find a way to kill me."</p><p class="">            "No, kiddo, he's gone off on a hunt, like he always does."</p><p class="">            "Julian told him there was something in my mind. He knows I'm not human."</p><p class="">            "He doesn't know anything. He's—not good with this stuff."</p><p class="">            "He's the best," Sam said bitterly. "You've always said so. Nothing gets past him."</p><p class="">            Dean released him and rubbed his arm. "Sammy—he gave you over to that psychic. And now you're hurting and—"</p><p class="">            "And he doesn't care. He thinks less of me for hurting and not giving up what I saw."</p><p class="">            "That's not true."</p><p class="">            "I was awake, Dean. I heard him." Sam rolled away, wiping his eyes, shaking. Dean followed, stubborn as ever.</p><p class="">            "Listen to me. We will find a way to make this better."</p><p class="">            "I want to be normal," he sobbed. "I want to stay in the same place every night. I want you to take me to baseball games and I want you to go to college and <em>I </em>want to go to college. I want us to be <em>safe</em>."</p><p class="">            Dean's hand was steady and warm and slow, moving up and down his back. "I know, kiddo," he murmured. "If I could give you that, I would."</p><p class="">            Of course he would. Dean would give him anything—money, clothes off his back, his time, his life. Sam so badly wanted to be a good brother, and he was nothing these days but a clinging, weak mess. It was a constant one step forward, two steps back, and Sam didn't know how to get ahead. As hard as Dean worked, and as much as Sam followed, he kept seeing the nursery, kept losing track of his voice, of words, of <em>time</em>. Kept seeing yellow eyes on perfectly normal men.</p><p class="">            Kept feeling his throat burn.</p><p class="">            Kept hearing his parents scream.</p><p class="">            "What's <em>wrong </em>with me?" Sam whispered.</p><p class="">            "I don't know, Sam, but we'll figure it out. Okay? Me and Dad and Bobby, we will figure it out and we'll fix it. Just hang on," he rubbed his back once more. "Hang on for me, Sammy."</p><p class="">            Sam buried his face in the pillow. "I want to be a good brother. A good son."</p><p class="">            "You <em>are.</em>" Dean lay behind him, pulling him in. Sam didn't resist. "Remember the story Bobby told us? I was...five or six. You were just talking. And I had some flu or bug, and you spent a good hour pushing a giant book up the steps. It kept falling back down and you kept going after it. You got it all the way from the living room to the guest room, and then you moved a chair and got the book and you on that, and then onto the bed, and then you yanked the book on top of you and spent a good ten minutes doing what Bobby swears was the baby version of cursing while you tried to get out from under it. And then you sat next to me and babbled nonsense and turned the pages like you were reading to me." Sam laughs through his tears. He can <em>hear</em> Dean smile. "You'd wave your hands and everything, just like you were telling me a story. You couldn't even really talk, and you were trying to help me feel better. You're not evil, or a monster, or anything bad, Sammy. Whatever is happening is happening because that psychic did something to your head. That's all. And we'll fix it, and we'll be fine."</p><p class="">            Sam shivered. Then touched his brother's hand. Dean squeezed him lightly. "Hang on for me, kiddo," he murmured. "I'll take care of us."</p><p class="">            <em>They shouldn't have left you alone with me</em>, Sam thought, feeling his throat begin to burn, head begin to ache. <em>You shouldn't be here alone with me. I might kill you one day. </em></p><p class="">
  <em>            Kill me first. </em>
</p><p class="">***</p><p class="">            Dean waited until his  brother was in a relaxed sleep before gently prying himself away. He changed as fast as possible, threw on his coat, shoved his feet into shoes, and was already dialing Bobby as he slipped out the door.</p><p class="">            It took three tries before the hunter answered, growling a "Yeah," that only sounded mildly human.</p><p class="">            "Bobby, it's Dean."</p><p class="">            "Dean?" Immediately, he sounded twice as awake. "It's good to hear from you, son, but it's awful late. What's going on?"</p><p class="">            "It's Sam. Bobby, he—he was doing okay, at first. But..."</p><p class="">            "Now he's worse than ever."</p><p class="">            Dean's stomach dropped. Bobby wasn't guessing—he <em>knew</em>. "I've got to know. What did you find on Julian's witnesses?"</p><p class="">            Bobby paused. Dean heard papers shuffling. "Nothing you're gonna like."</p><p class="">            "Tell me everything."</p><p class="">            "Like I told your old man. Changed his name a dozen or so years ago. His family's real old money—railroads, steel owners, CEOs, the works. Best boarding schools in the U.S. and Europe, Ivy-League degrees, I.Q. off the charts, hell of a reputation as a psychic."</p><p class="">            "What's the B-side?"</p><p class="">            "Dean—"</p><p class="">            "Bobby!" Dean told himself his palms were sweating from pressing the phone so tight. His knees were shaking from the late-night breeze.</p><p class="">            "This...Julian seems to be able to get answers out of his witnesses, but a whole lot of them don't do so well afterward."</p><p class="">            "Meaning?"</p><p class="">            "Dean—"</p><p class="">            "Don't talk <em>down </em>to me! I'm not a goddamn kid! Sam is <em>my </em>responsibility, and I've got to know what to do here!"</p><p class="">            "I don't think there's anything you <em>can </em>do."</p><p class="">            "Don't say that."    </p><p class="">            "Look—I've been doing some digging. Some of his witnesses have responded very well to certain medications. I say we find a good facility, I'll forge the insurance, and—"</p><p class="">            "Whoa whoa whoa—no one's sticking my brother in some loony bin."</p><p class="">            "Not a 'loony bin,' a <em>treatment facility</em>. We'll find the best there is—"</p><p class="">            "<em>No one's locking up my brother.</em>"</p><p class="">            "Dean, this is beyond what you or me or your old man know how to deal with."</p><p class="">            "This <em>happened</em> because of some <em>supernatural</em> investigation, now you're telling me standard, normal psychology is going to fix-up my brother better than we can?"</p><p class="">            "All I'm saying—"</p><p class="">            "I know what you're saying, and I'm saying no! Find something else. We <em>always </em>find something else."</p><p class="">            "Son, we've got to cut this off before it gets so bad Sam can't respond to <em>anything</em>."</p><p class="">            "Then you hit the books and get back to me."</p><p class="">            "This tone of yours ain't getting you nowhere."</p><p class="">            "<em>Please</em>, Bobby." Dean resisted the urge to slam his fist into the door. "You're all I've got."</p><p class="">            "And I don't want to be saying this to you anymore than you want to be hearing it. But it's the truth, Dean."</p><p class="">            "Please. Please just...look again. Make some calls. Give me names and numbers. <em>Anything</em>. <em>Please</em>."</p><p class="">            Bobby sighed. "All right," he said softly. "You remember what I told you when your Daddy came to get you."</p><p class="">            "I do."</p><p class="">            "Hang tight."</p><p class="">            "We will."</p><p class="">            Dean hit 'end' and stood there, shivering, trying to readjust his game face before going back to check on Sammy.</p><p class="">            And then John Winchester stepped out of the dark.</p><p class="">***</p><p class="">            John was tired—bone-weary, the sign of a successful hunt. He'd pulled the Impala around the back of the motel, gathered his weapons, doubled-checked he had his journals, and circled around to the low-lit area of rooms, only to hear Dean's anxious voice. He'd hesitated, catching enough to realize his eldest was talking to Bobby Singer, and that the concern was clearly over Sam. As it always was. Dean was an excellent caretaker—that much John could admit. Even when it stung.</p><p class="">            Right now, it stung a <em>lot—</em>had sent him back out into the field with a vengeance. He couldn't bear seeing his children suffer. And to think that, maybe, he'd put this before Sam...that Dean was a better father...</p><p class="">            John shook it off. He'd saved lives tonight. He'd save more. He'd saved his boys and he would ensure they'd be saved for the rest of their natural lives by preparing them. <em>That </em>was his role. Dean could fill in any emotional gaps for Sammy. And Dean was like his father—no emotional gaps to be seen.</p><p class="">            He waited until the call was over before crossing into the light and heading toward their room. His eldest started, hand immediately going to the pistol John knew he always kept.</p><p class="">            "Dean," he said, keeping his voice steady. His son's hands dropped to his side. "Sammy all right?"</p><p class="">            His son's face twisted in a way John had never seen. And then, before he could comprehend what was happening, Dean launched himself at him, raised fist sailing by his face as John quickly ducked and caught his wrist.</p><p class="">            "You did this!" Dean shouted, trying to turn and swing again. John dropped his duffel and slammed his son into the motel door, pinning his arm behind his back.</p><p class="">            "At ease!" he barked. Dean's free hand fisted and fought to strike at him while his body writhed against his hold.</p><p class="">            "Everything you put on me—protect Sam, watch out for Sam—and you let that bastard tear him apart! He might never be the same, do you hear me?" Dean surged savagely in his hold. "<em>He may never be the same!</em>"</p><p class="">            "<em>Calm down</em>," John growled, pushing Dean harder into the door. "Calm down," he repeated, softer. "Dean, tell me what happened and we'll figure it out."</p><p class="">            "No! <em>Y</em><em>ou</em> tell <em>me</em>, Dad—what did you let that sonofabitch do to him?"</p><p class="">            "You know what."</p><p class="">            "No, I don't! Sammy is—"</p><p class="">            From behind the door, Sam screamed. John instantly released Dean, who had the key in and the door kicked open before John could grab his duffel. He glanced briefly at the salt-line--needed retouching--before racing across the room to his sons.</p><p class="">            Dean was perched on the bed furthest from the door, gripping his brother's shoulders, calling his name. Sam continued to scream. His feet kicked, his arms flailed, but it was weak, almost hopeless. He writhed and whimpered, strange, high-pitched, childish sounds John hadn't heard in over a decade. Dean yanked him upright and gripped tight, but still Sam wailed and fought and <em>sobbed</em>.</p><p class="">            "Sammy, Sammy it's okay, it's okay, we got you—" Dean pleaded, struggling to hold his brother.</p><p class="">            "Sam—son—" John tried, but Sam just screamed louder. Dean caught both his brother's arms and yanked him close, rocking slowly and hushing him until the screams stopped and the tears started. "Easy, Sammy, easy, easy," he murmured. "We got you. I got you." Sam flailed weakly, clutching at his brother's shirt. Dean pressed him  close and breathed into his hair. "Shhh, Sammy. It'll be okay. It'll all be okay. We'll fix it," Dean's voice broke as he adjusted his grip on his brother, "I'll fix it," he whispered.  </p><p class="">            John fought against the wave of feeling that came when Sammy stilled in his brother's arms, cuddling against him as he had as a baby. He refused to admit he felt envy, hurt, or neglect—ridiculous feelings, brought on by his youngest's ridiculous hero-worship of his elder brother. It was natural for Sam to cling to Dean, after all he'd taught them. Nothing wrong with letting his surprisingly weak and sensitive eldest deal with his equally weak and sensitive youngest. That's what he made them for, right?</p><p class="">            Right?</p><p class="">            Watching his boys—Dean murmuring, Sam weeping—he felt a slow dread build in his stomach. Dean had sacrificed his pride for Sammy. Sammy had sacrificed his pride for the cause. And now John would have to sacrifice his pride for them both.</p><p class="">            He stepped out the door and scrolled through the contacts on his phone until he hit "M."</p><p class=""> </p><p class=""> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p></p><div>
  <p><em><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:</b><br/>May 1992. Admitted to fear of people in masks and face-paint.<br/></em><em><br/></em>*</p>
  <p><em> <b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/>  </b> </em> <em>September 1992. Increasingly argumentative about the "justice" in attacking monsters that assume human form.</em></p>
</div><div>
  <p><br/>***</p>
</div><p class="">                Missouri was a strong, beautiful, looming presence as the Winchesters made their way onto  the porch. She smiled so wide and  honest Dean felt Sam relax slightly against him, but the elder Winchester refused to be taken in. He'd never trust a psychic again.</p><p class="">                "Sam, Dean...let me look at you!" She laughed. "Last time I saw you, Sam, you were barely two. Running along behind this one, babbling up a storm of nonsense. And you," she turned to Dean, "well, you grew up handsome. You were a goofy looking kid. Ears that would rival an elephant's."</p><p class="">                Sam smiled slightly. Dean huffed, indignant. Missouri zeroed in on the younger boy, moving forward. "Sam—"</p><p class="">                Dean jerked his brother away. "I don't want you focusing on him."</p><p class="">                John stepped closer forward. "Dean, it's okay."</p><p class="">                "No offense, <em>sir</em>, but <em>this</em> time I'm not taking your word for it."</p><p class="">                "Boy, you watch your tone when you talk to your father," Missouri snapped.</p><p class="">                "Look, lady, you're not the first psychic we've met."</p><p class="">                "No, but I guarantee I'm the first who could tell your father and brother about what you and Ronda Hurley did while her daddy was picking up her mama's anniversary present." Dean jerked back in surprise. Sam's eyes widened. "Now," Missouri huffed, "you three get on inside, and let's get this mess sorted."</p><p class="">                As they crossed into the foyer, Sam looked up at his  brother and whispered, "What'd you <em>do</em>?" Dean flushed and cuffed his head lightly.</p><p class="">                In Missouri's living room, she stood facing them once more, a slight frown on her face. "Sam," she said gently, "mind if I see your hand?"</p><p class="">                Sam glanced up at Dean. Dean hesitated, then lay a hand on his brother's shoulder and turned his green eyes on her.</p><p class="">                "Boy," Missouri barked, "Talk like that again, and I'll shut you in the bathroom with a bar of soap in your mouth."</p><p class="">                "I didn't say anything," Dean protested.</p><p class="">                "You didn't have to." She turned to Sam and smiled benevolently once more. "Promise I'm not gonna hurt you, sugar. It just helps me  focus on where the hurt's coming from."</p><p class="">                Sam slowly extended  his hand. She pressed it gently between her own, scanning his face—and gasped. Her face went from shock, to horror, to rage, and back to sympathy in a matter of seconds. If Dean hadn't spent so much time reading people, he'd have missed it all.</p><p class="">                "Oh...honey," she murmured, her eyes suddenly damp. "I'm so sorry. A real wrong's been done to you." She brought her right hand up gingerly under his chin and made him meet her gaze. "Don't you worry about a thing. I'm going to make this right. I'll need a little time, though. And you boys need a little lunch."</p><p class="">                She released Sam and turned to Dean. "You take your brother in the kitchen and help yourself to what's in the fridge. There's a batch roast beef I cooked up for the week, a green-bean casserole, and a cherry pie on the counter. You both eat hardy—you need it. I'm going to have a word with your father."</p><p class="">                They both hesitated, glancing from John to each other. "Well?" Missouri said. "Scoot! I want to see at least half my leftovers missing when I get in there."</p><p class="">                Dean gave a slight nod to Sam and guided his brother out into the hall. Missouri drew the double parlor doors closed behind them and waited, letting John squirm in the silence that followed.</p><p class="">                "I know what you told me, but—"</p><p class="">                Missouri brought her palm across his face so fast he had no time to react. "But nothing! That boy—" She whacked him again. "I've a mind to call the authorities about you. What you did—"</p><p class="">                John rubbed feebly at his cheek. "He said he could get us a picture of what killed Mary."</p><p class="">                "At the expense of <em>what</em>?"</p><p class="">                "Nothing, just—"</p><p class="">                "You know better than to lie to me, John Winchester."</p><p class="">                John's face fell. "I screwed up."</p><p class="">                "You did <em>more </em>than 'screw up.'" She stalked away, disgust on her face. "He didn't 'open a window,' John. The wards on his mind don't allow that. He <em>burnt </em>one through. That—<em>that </em>was bad enough." She turned sharply and started back toward him, rage making her seem twice her normal size. "But what's <em>worse—</em>that burn he made? It's infected."</p><p class="">                "Infected?"</p><p class="">                "Psychic wounds ain't no different than any other. They need to be properly treated or they turn to pus and rot. That hole between his unconscious and conscious was a nasty burn. And it went untreated. And it's growing bigger and larger. And all that terror—that feeling of a baby's undeveloped muscles—the inability to speak—it's leaking all over his conscious. It's days away from being a full-blown flood, and then your boy would be a full-blown psychotic. <em>That's </em>what you did, John."</p><p class="">                John closed his eyes. "Can you fix it?"</p><p class="">                "It ain't going to be easy. And it's going to get worse before it gets better."</p><p class="">                "But it <em>can</em> get better?"</p><p class="">                Missouri glared. "It won't be a free pass for next time. Your boy isn't ever going to be the same. Dean neither. You've lost some of their trust, John. Was it worth it?"</p><p class="">                John swallowed, hard. "I really thought—"</p><p class="">                "I <em>know </em>what you <em>thought.</em> And I told you it could lose you a son." She opened the parlor door once more. "I don't want you in my home. You hear? You leave those boys with me. I'm going to need quiet to study, and they need to be left to themselves to heal."</p><p class="">                "I'm trying to make things right."</p><p class="">                "Then you get in that car and you go find something to kill."</p><p class="">                "I need to—"</p><p class="">                "No, you don't. You take a few days and when you get back, <em>I'll</em> tell you what you need to do."</p><p class="">                "Missouri—"</p><p class="">                "Good-<em>bye</em>, John."</p><p class="">                He hesitated. Then, glancing between the kitchen and the door, slowly backed away.</p><p class="">                She didn't need to be psychic to know she wasn't the first to ask him of it.</p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                Missouri found the boys in the kitchen. Sam was hunched on the edge of one of her kitchen chairs, watching his elder brother dump ice and fruit and yogurt into her blender.</p><p class="">                "Seriously, dude, I've never seen this much fruit outside of a grocery store," Dean said. Sam smiled.</p><p class="">                "When's the last time <em>you</em> went to a grocery store?"</p><p class="">                "I shop!"</p><p class="">                "For <em>fruit</em>?"</p><p class="">                "Despite your best efforts, you haven't starved to death yet," Dean turned so Sam could see his smile. His grin wavered briefly when he saw her in the doorway, then regained its strength as he poured his experiment into a glass for his brother. "Besides, Missouri said to use her leftovers."</p><p class="">                "Good that you did," she said. Sam stiffened as she approached, and she reached out and brushed gently at his cheek.</p><p class="">                "Here you go, bud," Dean said, overly-cheerful as he set the smoothie down. She admired him: having no idea what he was dealing with, his instincts were still dead-on.</p><p class="">                "Now listen," she said, "I've asked your daddy to take a break and leave you with me."</p><p class="">                Sam glanced at her, then looked immediately back to his brother. Dean smiled and slumped into the seat beside him, deliberately bumping his brother's shoulder.</p><p class="">                "No worries...we've been seeing a lot of that lately. Right, Sammy?"</p><p class="">                Sam stared at her, all big brown eyes and deep-rooted fear. "You understand only half what's said these days, don't ya, sugar?" she murmured. The wide eyes grew wider.</p><p class="">                "What?" Dean asked, looking between them. "Sammy?"</p><p class="">                "Can you still read?"</p><p class="">                Sam paled, then lowered his gaze. "Sometimes."</p><p class="">                "What's going on?" Dean snapped.</p><p class="">                "Your brother gets real quiet sometimes, don't he?"</p><p class="">                "Sure," Dean's hand automatically reached for, and found, Sam's shoulder, rubbing gently. "That's fine. It's been a hard few weeks."</p><p class="">                Missouri nodded. "I made up the guestroom. First door on left. Has its own bathroom. Only one bed, but it's a big one. I figure you won't mind sharing, but if you do, I can pull out the sofa."</p><p class="">                "No, one bed's fine. Thank you."</p><p class="">                "You eat before it's warm," she said to Sam, "and <em>you </em>eat before it's cold. I'm going to need a little time to study before we set things straight." She crouched in front of Sam and gently lifted his chin so his dark eyes met hers. "It's going to be all right," she murmured. "Before I do anything, I'll walk you through it all. Tell you what happened and how I'm going to fix it. In the meantime, you boys make yourself at home. Watch some TV, sleep, eat up my whole fridge for all I care. Understood?"</p><p class="">                Sam gave her a small, but genuine, smile. She tossed him a wink and left him in his brother's care.</p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                Dean made Sammy finish his shake and devoured his own plate, than got them both settled in Missouri's guest room. Though a so-called "bachelorette" pad, the home was stripped of almost anything girly: white walls, dark wood, few, androgynous paintings. Their room had starched white curtains, white bedspread,  an old TV, and even plainer bathroom.</p><p class="">                Dean wasn't complaining.</p><p class="">                With their father gone, Sam was infinitely more relaxed, even if he wasn't back to normal. He was unusually obedient—as he'd been since the start of this mess—and uncharacteristically clingy, but Dean had grown used to these as "normal" symptoms when it came to the post-Julian Sam, and he was relieved to see his brother smile and laugh, however lightly—things he <em>never </em>did when their father was present.</p><p class="">                However little he knew Missouri, she seemed to know her stuff—even if her assertion that Sam was losing language deeply disturbed him. Dean settled them in, let the TV play some brainless comedy, rubbed his brother's floppy brown hair and tugged him against his leg, letting Sam curl up in a comfortable little S beside him, and was relieved when he drifted off. Dean inched himself gradually away, yanking the comforter over as he went, leaving his brother burrowed in a soft cotton cocoon before venturing downstairs to the parlor. Missouri had half-drawn the doors to the living room, and Dean paused outside the doors, listening for any sounds or chanting that might clue him in to what the psychic was doing.</p><p class="">                All he heard was an indignant huff before Missouri called out, "Lurking in doorways is rude, Dean."</p><p class="">                He flushed and stepped into view. She smiled, amused by his discomfort. "I'm afraid you can't have secrets from me, honey. Not under my roof."</p><p class="">                "Did you talk to my dad?"</p><p class="">                "I gave him a piece of my mind for what he let that man do to your brother."</p><p class="">                Dean swallowed, hard. "Can you help him?"</p><p class="">                "I'm gonna try."</p><p class="">                "What is wrong with him?"</p><p class="">                Missouri gestured to the chair across from her. Dean came in slowly and took a seat. Her gaze softened. "When that psychic tried to open a door, he couldn't get through, so he kicked his way in. But he couldn't close it. So we've got a leak directly between an unconscious trauma and your brother's conscious mind."</p><p class="">                "That's why—"</p><p class="">                "Why he has nightmares, and panic attacks, and from time to time, can't figure out how to speak."</p><p class="">                Dean kept his face carefully composed. "But...you can fix it?"</p><p class="">                "I'm gonna give it my all."</p><p class="">                He nodded slowly. "What can I do?"</p><p class="">                "Exactly what you're doing. Looking out for him, taking care of him."</p><p class="">                "I haven't helped."</p><p class="">                "You've <em>saved </em>him." She sat up straighter, eyes boring into his. "Honey, most people who get this kind of hurt are carted off to the nuthouse in a week or two. You know why he's not?" Dean shook his head. "Boy, you really are stupid. <em>You</em>. You carrying him out of that house is leaking through too. That man may have torn his world down to the foundation, but that foundation is <em>you</em>. And it's solid. And he's hanging on for all he's worth." She smiled. "You boys got something special, I'm telling you. You connect deep, way underneath your conscious. You're pulling him out of the pit, Dean, just by doing all you're doing."</p><p class="">                Dean's throat was swollen almost shut. He looked to the floor. Missouri took his hand and squeezed gently. "Missouri..." He took a slow breath, "Sam doesn't have any memories of our mother. Is there...someway you could let...some good ones in? While erasing the bad?"</p><p class="">                Missouri's face stayed calm and cool as ever. "No," she said gently, "I can't pick and choose like that. What I'm gonna do, it'll seal off all the ugly, but Sam's still gonna remember that night. He just won't have all the symptoms of what he felt back then leaking all over the now."</p><p class="">                "I just--" Dean's throat felt so swollen, he had to almost choke out the words, "It wasn't...all...bad. I don't...I hate to think...his only memory is...her...<em>burning</em>--"</p><p class="">                "I know," Missouri soothed, clutching his hands in hers. "I wish I could give you more. But what I <em>can</em> give, will be so much better if I don't give it alone."</p><p class="">                Dean swallowed. "What do you mean?"</p><p class="">                "I'm going to need your help."</p><p class=""> </p><p class=""> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class=""><em><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:</b><br/>October 1992. No reaction to Shinto daggers and altars.<br/></em><em><br/></em>*<br/><br/><em><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/>  </b>December </em><em>1992. Highly agitated by Dean's "caroling."</em></p><p></p><div>
  <p><br/>***</p>
</div><p class=""><br/>                Sam was dressed in sweat pants and a t-shirt, lying on his back with his head propped on thick, fluffy pillows. Dean was next to him, a hand resting on his brother's shoulder as Missouri took a seat in the chair she'd planted beside them.</p><p class="">                "All right now," she said, smiling. "Let me tell you both what happened and what we're gonna do about it."</p><p class="">                Sam shuddered. Dean squeezed his shoulder.</p><p class="">                "To certain psychics, the unconscious and the conscious can be visible. The way the bottom of a swimming pool is when you're standing on the side of it. Not every psychic can push past the bottom, and the <em>majority </em>of us know better than to try." She lay a reassuring hand over Sam's. "Now, those who <em>can</em>, and want access, often put people under hypnosis for two reasons. First off, it helps them see the gateways clearer—say you turned the lights on in that pool at night. And it lets the subject open the doors naturally, without any hurt."</p><p class="">                "A <em>human</em> subject?" Sam asked.</p><p class="">                "Sammy, I told you—" Dean began.</p><p class="">                "What, you think you're not human because there's wards on your mind?" Missouri demanded. Both brothers tensed. "Honey, I've got them, and my mama had them, and her mama before her. Nothing's getting in that I don't want and nothing's getting out. Nothin' wrong or evil about it. Now, if whatever was in your nursery that night locked up those memories? I say bless it."</p><p class="">                "Who locked yours?" Sam asked.</p><p class="">                "My grandma. As her mama locked hers. Don't make us any less human. Just means we're not gonna let the hurts of the past get in the way of the present."  </p><p class="">                Sam's eyes filled. "But...a monster locked mine."</p><p class="">                "Doesn't make <em>you</em> one." She lifted his hand and held it tight, letting his fear flood into her.  "Baby, we all got things buried in there that we don't ever want to know. Wards are just an extra way to keep those memories out."</p><p class="">                "When Julian couldn't get in, he basically kicked his way," Dean supplied.</p><p class="">                "Right. And when he did, he left a great big gap where a door should be.  And that door is growing bigger. I'm gonna shut it up again, honey. But I'm gonna need you to trust me. And to let me put you under again so I can see what I'm doing."</p><p class="">                Sam was breathing hard, his face careful and composed though his breathing was closer to panic.</p><p class="">                "It won't be anything like before, sugar," Missouri soothed. "Promise. And if I'm wrong, if I start hurting you, your brother here can wake you."</p><p class="">                Sam turned to Dean, who smiled gently and squeezed his brother's shoulder, thumb moving in slow circles. "She's gonna give me control over the whole 3-2-1 Houdini thing," Dean reassured. "So if I don't like where it's going, like last time, I can call it off."</p><p class="">                "Dean—" Sam's voice cracked.</p><p class="">                "No worries, dude. Missouri may be loud and bossy and nosy and—ow!" he yelped as the psychic reached out and whacked him good and hard across the head, "—and a <em>child abuser,</em>" he ducked a second swing, "but she knows her stuff. And she wants to help. She <em>will </em>help. Promise."</p><p class="">                Sam's eyes met Dean's. Missouri watched as the brothers had a silent, swift conversation  before the younger Winchester turned back to her, squared his shoulders, and put on a brave face. Dean smiled and patted his brother's shoulder, a silent <em>attaboy</em>. She marveled at the strength of their connection, at an age where most people were the most self-absorbed. Sam desperately wanted to make Dean proud, trusted his brother unconditionally, while Dean would move heaven, hell, and everything in between to protect his younger brother. Their bond was powerful, thick, and <em>old</em>: it had been planted long before they were born. She could sense it.</p><p class="">                "And your brother may be stupid, hedonistic, arrogant and ignorant," she said, causing Sam to smile and Dean to bark an indignant "Hey!", and she continued, "but he's crazy protective of you, honey. He's not gonna let me do a thing he doesn't think is right."</p><p class="">                Sam's amused smile changed to a warm, happy glow, even as Dean flushed slightly.</p><p class="">                "Close your eyes," Missouri soothed. Sam's hands clenched at the covers. His jaw set, but his lashes began to flutter, and his breathing picked up, rising in harsh, desperate pants. Recognizing the symptoms, Dean quickly slipped an arm beneath his brother's head, sitting him up.<br/><br/>                "Easy, easy," he coaxed, letting Sam rest against him. "Breathe through it, Sammy."</p><p class="">                Sam couldn't move. He couldn't roll over. He couldn't speak. He could only lie flat, looking at the world around him. Kick and flail and cry, but not fight, not run. Words didn't make sense. He wanted someone to hold him, to run with him, to clear the burn in his throat and the yellow out of the man's eyes. He was cold. He wanted his mother.</p><p class="">                "Sammy."  </p><p class="">                <em>Night, Sam! </em></p><p class="">"C'mon buddy. C'mon back." </p><p class="">                <em>Goodniiiiiiight, looooove. </em></p><p class="">"Sam!"</p><p class="">                Sam gasped and opened his eyes. He still couldn't move, couldn't speak. Dean had him, had an arm around his back and a warm, strong hand on his shoulder. Missouri cupped his chin and met his gaze with a gentle, sweet, reassuring smile.</p><p class="">                "I'm going to make it right, Sam," she said gently. "But you've got to trust me. Trust <em>us</em>."</p><p class="">                Sam nodded, though he clearly didn't. She could feel the current of memory yanking him backward into the pit of his unconscious, tearing open larger portions of his conscious mind. Could feel Sam struggling against the physical symptoms even as he succumbed to the emotional ones.</p><p class="">                Dean moved his hand to Sam's hair and let it rest. "I gotcha," he whispered, just enough for Sam to hear. Some of the tense lines around the younger boy's face relaxed. </p><p class="">                "Now," Missouri said, laying a gentle hand against his forehead and guiding him back to the pillow. "I'm gonna put you to sleep, like that lousy bastard did, only I know what I'm doin'. And your brother here is going to help me explain what I'm doin’. You answer both of us, and if you start to feel like before, you tell us and I'll pull back right away. Got it?"</p><p class="">                Sam nodded. Dean adjusted his position on the bed so he could clearly see his brother's face, then squeezed his shoulder. </p><p class="">                "When I count backwards from ten," Missouri began, "you're going to be in a deep sleep. Completely relaxed, breathing slow." Sam's breath hitched. "No panic. Nothing like before. You and Dean have the reins. Deep sleep, sugar. Relax." She began to count. Sam's fingers twitched, his breathing sped up once more, but Dean's hand settled over his chest and he breathed a soft, "shhhh," and Sam stilled and slowly succumbed to her count.</p><p class="">                "Three...two...one." Missouri nodded to Dean.</p><p class="">                "Sammy? Can you hear me?"</p><p class="">                "Yes."</p><p class="">                "Who is it?"</p><p class="">                "Dean."</p><p class="">                "Right. You know where you are?"</p><p class="">                "Lawrence."</p><p class="">                "Attaboy. With me and Missouri. Remember her?"</p><p class="">                "Yes."</p><p class="">                "Know why we're here?"</p><p class="">                "Fix the hole."</p><p class="">                "That's right. Can I let Missouri do her thing?"</p><p class="">                Sam paused. "He says yes."</p><p class="">                Dean stiffened. "Who says yes?"</p><p class="">                "He does."</p><p class="">                "Who's 'he,' Sam?"</p><p class="">                "He—" Sam frowned and flinched slightly. "He says...no."</p><p class="">                "No?"</p><p class="">                "Secret."</p><p class="">                "What he is?"</p><p class="">                "Secret." Sam whimpered. "Shhh. Don't cry. They'll hear you."</p><p class="">                Dean grew pale. Missouri leaned forward and took the boy's hand—a flash of gold light pierced her mind. She stood strong before it.</p><p class="">                "Sam," she said, "will he let me work?"</p><p class="">                "Yes."</p><p class="">                "He wants the door repaired?"</p><p class="">                "Shut. Closed. His."</p><p class="">                "No, Sam. It's <em>your </em>mind."</p><p class="">                "His."</p><p class="">                "<em>Your </em>memories."</p><p class="">                "His. His door. His—" He gasped. "Shhh. Secret."</p><p class="">                "I'm going to push against your mind, Sam. I don't want you to resist." She pressed his hand slightly tighter and allowed her vision to dim, the warm dark of the boy's mind growing as she settled in his sleeping conscious. "Does that hurt?"</p><p class="">                "No."</p><p class="">                "I'm going to go deeper. Toward your unconscious. Tell me if you feel any pain."</p><p class="">                "No pain."</p><p class="">                "Good boy." She moved deeper, the familiar ripple in the dark signaling her approach toward the bottom of his conscious, a low, unfamiliar gold flashing at her briefly before winking out. She paused again, letting Sam's mind adjust around her, ensuring her own was holding strong. "Any hurt?"</p><p class="">                "No."</p><p class="">                "I'm going to your unconscious, Sam. Toward the hole. It might sting a bit."</p><p class="">                "No worse than peroxide," Dean said, and she thought, <em>good boy.</em> Anxiety was pouring off him in waves, but he remembered everything they discussed and kept his voice steady and calm as he recited his lines.  She drew a long, slow breath and gave her vision over completely to the wall before her.</p><p class="">                She’d seen others, of course: her grandma, while she was teaching her how to do these “psychic night-dives,” as she’d refer to them: her mama’s, who was frequently the guinea pig for practice sessions: the rare client’s, while investigating a childhood trauma or two. And of course, her own. It wasn’t abnormal for the wall to pulse with color now and then, swelling up from the deep and giving off a dark impression before vanishing back within. And, of course, any wards stood out, glowing low and soft, but hard as steel.</p><p class="">                This was a horse of a different color. Sam’s wards <em>glared </em>in a brilliant, shimmering yellow, half-blinding her when she attempted to view them directly. Those closest to the hole had been scalded and were now coated with a faint look of black dust. The area around the hole was raw and blacker than black, churning and squealing as the horror of that night escaped and chewed away at the healthy mind behind it.</p><p class="">It was releasing hell.</p><p class="">                It was <em>seeing into </em>hell.</p><p class="">                It was the work of evil, the deepest, darkest, kind. The kind even her grandma had told her never to tangle with. “There’s the evil from man and the evil from God, Missy,” she’d told her, before she’d even begun to encourage and practice with her granddaughters’ inherited gifts, “and believe me, the evil of the Lord doesn’t appreciate interruption. It’s not our place. Don’t go tangling with it.”</p><p class="">                Missouri took a deep breath. Normally, seeing something this harsh, and in honor of her love and devotion to the rules of her foremothers, she'd back away and tell the unhappy client that she wasn't able to help. But knowing there wasn't one but <em>two </em>children relying on her, she braced herself and reached out into the swarming darkness, forcing her own strength and calling the words she'd so long ago memorized into the swarm. She reached out and touched the very end of the infection, eyeing the darkness as it scurried like beetles.</p><p class="">                <em>Sam, </em>she thought, <em>you hear me. Yes?</em></p><p class=""><em>                Yes, </em>his voice resonated in her head.</p><p class="">                <em>Good. And you trust me?</em></p><p class="">
  <em>                Fix it. He says yes.</em>
</p><p class=""><em>                Good,</em> she said, feeling her own breath hitch.  <em>That's good. It may sting. </em></p><p class="">                <em>Dean's here. Hang on. I will. </em></p><p class="">                <em>Good boy.</em> She reached out and laid her psychic-self as gently as possible against his wound. She felt his physical self flinch as his psychic self surged into her touch, anxious to receive grace.</p><p class="">                <em>Back</em>, she thought, at the same time as her conscious mind registered, <em>easy, Sammy, easy. </em></p><p class="">It'd only get worse.</p><p class="">                The hole was twice as large as she anticipated, hurt and flame and fear pouring outward in a slow but steady stream. She steadied herself against it, regained her strength, and faced the flood with a calm, cool <em>back</em>, chanting in all the languages she'd been taught. The infection recoiled, pulling itself up and into the dark beyond until she could surpass the current and touch the edges of the wall. She willed her own strength into it, letting the dark deepen, thicken, and grow over the leaking infection. The body above her hissed and whimpered, and a voice drifted soothingly down, and she pushed all the harder, relieved neither Winchester was calling her off.</p><p class="">                There was a strange, odd suction, and the hole sealed itself, the wall thickening, even with the scalded remains of a once-ward.</p><p class="">                <em>His wall. His mind. </em></p><p class="">                Missouri felt a slight resistance and pushed with all she had, shuttering up the wall and withdrawing, slowly but surely. When the room appeared once more in her vision she allowed herself a few deep breaths before opening her eyes.</p><p class="">                Sam was pressed tight against his brother, face damp, bucking slightly as if in a seizure. She reached out and grasped his hand, felt a surge of emotion, and scanned her work from afar. It had held: the hole was sealed. Sam's body was just catching up to it.</p><p class="">                "Sammy—c'mon!" Dean pleaded, trying to wrestle his brother into stillness.</p><p class="">                "Give him a minute," she soothed, touching his hand as well, but for reassurance. His fierce green eyes turned on her.</p><p class="">                "Your eyes went yellow," Dean hissed.</p><p class="">                She started. "What?"</p><p class="">                "You heard me."</p><p class="">                Missouri looked down at Sam as he whimpered and went limp. She checked his temperature, smoothing his bangs aside.</p><p class="">                "The wards on his mind are yellow," she said softly. "Brighter than any I've ever seen."</p><p class="">                "That...thing. Sammy said his eyes were gold. Like a cat."</p><p class="">                Missouri set to smoothing Sam's hair as the boy stirred. "I don't know what it was," she admitted. "But boy...it was evil."</p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                <em>There's another journal.</em></p><p class="">Sam saw flashes of memory—a white-barred crib, a chiming mobile, a crescent-moon night-light.</p><p class="">                <em>There's another journal. </em></p><p class="">                Dean—and he couldn't believe that Dean was <em>ever </em>that small—with blond hair floppier than Sam's.</p><p class="">                <em>There's another journal. </em></p><p class="">                His dad holding him, bouncing him to keep him from fussing.</p><p class="">                <em>There's another journal. </em></p><p class="">                His mom beautiful and warm and alive. Paralyzed and bleeding and enflamed. The flash of the ceiling as Dean ran with him. The singing mobile. The flickering night-light. The yellow eyes. Crying sirens. Cold motels. Silver spoons, a rosary in his bottle. Latin lullabies. Crawling over a devil's trap.</p><p class="">                And through it all, flashes of being lifted, hugged and even kissed, reaching for the pen his father used in a leather-bound book Sam had never seen, smaller than the journal he spent almost as much time with as he'd spent with his sons, and as the memories flooded through and the blinding pain in his head turned the whole room white and erased Dean's voice, Sam felt his youngest self reaching out from beyond the pit of his unconscious before he was buried once more to tell him the most important thing he ever could—</p><p class="">                <em>There's another journal.</em></p><p class=""> </p><p class=""> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Part II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p></p><div>
  <p>
    <b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:</b>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>October 1992. Cried after speaking with a child's ghost. <br/></em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p><br/>*</p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em> <b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/></b> </em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>December 1992. Proving to be an adept tracker.</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>***</p>
</div><p class="">
  <em>There's another journal.</em>
</p><p class="">                In the days that followed Missouri's cure, Sam didn't just see the world as he had before; he saw it better. It was as if he'd suddenly aged ten years, or gone from watching a small, crappy motel-room TV to a huge, perfect, modern movie screen.</p><p class="">
  <em>There's another journal.</em>
</p><p class="">                He saw the bags under Dean's eyes, the slump of his shoulders, the weariness and worry and exhaustion.</p><p class="">
  <em>There's another journal.</em>
</p><p class="">                Saw his father's pain, loneliness, paranoia, and complete lack of mercy.</p><p class="">
  <em>There's another journal.</em>
</p><p class="">                Saw Missouri's fatigue, her weariness of knowing so much truth, her inability to sleep with all the hearts crying for help in the dark.</p><p class="">
  <em>There's another journal.</em>
</p><p class="">                Saw the occasional flash of yellow across his own eyes.</p><p class="">
  <em>There's another journal.</em>
</p><p class="">                Dean still slept beside him in the double guest room bed. Sam watched him flinch in his sleep, listened to the slight hitches in his brother's breathing at the slightest sound, felt the tightening of his arm around his own shoulders whenever Sam shifted, an automatic, almost desperate grip. It had never occurred to him that Dean was trying to hang on because he felt as close to the edge as Sam.</p><p class="">                "Shhh," he tried one night, when he'd rolled over and Dean's arm tightened. He couldn't equal Dean's solid, tender calm as well, but his brother's frown loosened and Dean sank back into a deep sleep. Sam shivered, fully aware for the first time in his life how much his brother needed <em>him—</em>and how wrong it was that he did.</p><p class="">                <em>I'm a monster, Dean. You kill monsters. You're so good at killing monsters. </em></p><p class="">                Sam inched closer until he was pressed against his brother's chest, relieved when Dean's arm tightened, automatically, once more. He missed his brother's not-so-terrible humming, and how it managed to block out and steady his whirling thoughts, the endless litany of <em>there's another journal there's another journal there's another journal. </em></p><p class="">                Missouri had breakfast ready every morning, all smiles while she explained her plans for the day and what she'd like from them. Dean was generally assigned a long list of chores while Sam was instructed to rest, something Sam couldn't help but laugh to himself about, though he always split the work when Missouri was out of earshot.</p><p class="">                The fourth morning of their stay, Missouri was quieter, watching them eat and silently adding more eggs to Sam's plate, casting him a <em>you better eat that </em>look when he opened his mouth to refuse.</p><p class="">                "Dean," she pronounced, as grandly as if she were about to tell him his destiny and how best to follow it, instead of informing him he'd be mopping her kitchen floor, "I'm going to give you a grocery list."</p><p class="">                "Sure," Dean sighed. "Sammy and me will—"</p><p class="">                "No, Sam's going to stay here. You'll only be an hour or two."</p><p class="">                Dean stared at her as if she'd just told him to take his little brother out back and decapitate him. "But--"</p><p class="">                "You haven't let him out of your sight since this mess has begun, and that's just what he needed. But now he's well on his way to healin', and you need to do the same."</p><p class="">                Dean turned his wide-eyed stare on Sam, and for the first time ever, Sam understood just how much the fear of losing his family ruled his brother's life.</p><p class="">                "Dean, it's fine," he said. "You should do something without me. Go for a drive or to the arcade."</p><p class="">                "I could...take you to town and...meet you," he tried.</p><p class="">                "No," Missouri said firmly. "You're going to take my car and go on your own and you're going to come back and see that he's just as you left him. It'll be good for both of you."</p><p class="">                Dean set his jaw. "No."</p><p class="">                "Dean—" Sam started.</p><p class="">                "<em>No</em>. I threw you to a psychic once. I'm never doing it again."</p><p class="">                Missouri shook her head. "Sam, I'm gonna leave this to you before I go for my lucky spoon."</p><p class="">                Sam nodded. Dean glared at her as she stomped off toward the living room. "Dean—"</p><p class="">                "<em>No</em>, Sammy."</p><p class="">                "She fixed me."</p><p class="">                "She's a psychic."</p><p class="">                "She's a psychic who <em>fixed </em>me."</p><p class="">                "I am <em>not </em>making the same mistake again!"</p><p class="">                "You're going to the <em>grocery store. </em>What, you think while you're gone I'm going to ask her to pop in to my head and burn a hole in my subconscious while you're gone?"</p><p class="">                Dean winced. "Sammy—"</p><p class="">                "She's right, Dean. I have to go back to school. <em>You</em> have to go back to school."</p><p class="">                "We've already talked about that."</p><p class="">                "<em>Fine.</em> I have to go back to school and you have to study for a GED." Dean's jaw locked once more. "Dean, I'll be fine, I promise. I trust Missouri. <em>You </em>made me trust Missouri. What's different now?"</p><p class="">                Dean just shook his head. "No. I don't like it."</p><p class="">                "So...what, you're never going to go on another date? Or play pool? Or go to the arcade? You're just going to sit around and make sure my head doesn't break again?"</p><p class="">                "If that's what it takes."</p><p class="">                Sam couldn't stop a warm, adoring smile. Dean rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. "I need time too, okay? I...you were so...<em>different, </em>Sammy."</p><p class="">                "You did the right things, Dean," he said softly. "I really—"</p><p class="">                "Stop, just—don't go there, Sam." His breath hitched.</p><p class="">                "Dean—"</p><p class="">                "No. That shit shouldn't have gone down in the first place, I sure as <em>hell </em>am not going to sit here and listen to you thank me for trying to clean it up afterwards."</p><p class="">                Sam swallowed over a growing lump in his own throat. "Go to the store," he managed. "It's just the store. I'll be fine."</p><p class="">                Dean took a slow breath and rubbed the back of his neck before turning his green eyes back to his brother. "You leave your phone on. And if you...feel anything like before—"</p><p class="">                "I'll call."</p><p class="">                "What if you can't talk?"</p><p class="">                "I'll text."</p><p class="">                "What if you can't read?"</p><p class="">                "I'll get Missouri to do it. She'll know what's going on."</p><p class="">                "What if she's the reason you can't talk or read?"</p><p class="">                "Then I'll run to town and meet you at the car, and you'll know why." Dean scoffed. "Hey," Sam smiled, "you've been running with me. You said yourself my time's been good."</p><p class="">                "Yeah. For a scrawny midget." Dean's attempted glare crumpled when he saw his brother's grin. "Just..."</p><p class="">                "I will."</p><p class="">                "You can't—"</p><p class="">                "I won't."</p><p class="">                "If anything—"</p><p class="">                "I promise."</p><p class="">                Dean rolled his eyes. "I hate you," he said, and ruffled Sam's dark head, dropping his arm and giving him a tender squeeze that was anything but hateful. Missouri emerged in the doorway with a shopping list and her usual no-nonsense attitude.</p><p class="">                "Now then," she said. "You mess up my car and you won't live to tell about it."</p><p class="">                Dean followed her into the entryway, scanning the list. "You're not serious."</p><p class="">                "Deadly," she snapped, opening the door to the porch.</p><p class="">                "<em>Tampons</em>?"</p><p class="">                "Tampax only."</p><p class="">                "Insult to injury, Missouri."</p><p class="">                "Takes a real man to buy 'em." She tossed him the car keys. "Get on out of here."</p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                Sam was trying to read on the porch while he was really watching the street. Dean, he knew, had gone to the grocery store, with Missouri's list, and Sam's blessing, but with his brother suddenly out of his sight, Sam felt lost. He traced the lines of his book and told himself that this was good for both of them, once more, even as he lost his concentration on the paragraph.</p><p class="">                The door swung open, and Missouri strolled out behind him, pulling her arms to herself. "Awful cold to be reading out here," she said.</p><p class="">                "It's all right," Sam murmured. The psychic looked at him, smiling softly.</p><p class="">                "He's gonna be fine, honey. So are you."</p><p class="">                Sam looked over his shoulder at her standing there, in a thin sweater in the chill of early winter. She'd been good and kind to them, taking them in, feeding them, healing Sam and giving them the space to heal one another. But he knew—whether she'd intended him to or not—why she'd really sent Dean out on his own.</p><p class="">                "My dad's coming back, isn't he," he said, more fact than question.</p><p class="">                "Yes," Missouri answered, without batting an eye.</p><p class="">                "That's why you sent Dean to the store."</p><p class="">                "I think you and your daddy need time alone. Don't you?" she looked at him and, for the first time in his life, Sam knew the question wasn't facetious.  If he said no, she'd send the Winchester patriarch away without a thought. Sam didn't need her to say it. He <em>knew. </em></p><p class="">"Dean'll be mad."</p><p class="">                "Let me deal with Dean."</p><p class="">                He nodded and looked back to his book. A second later he heard the creak of the porch as Missouri stepped toward him. Wished, for a fleeting second, that he knew what it was like to <em>have </em>a porch.</p><p class="">                "Sam," she murmured, "I'm not going to let anything like that happen to you again. Neither will your brother. And, believe it or not, your father won’t either. I know you have things to say to him, and I know he needs to hear them. You're still here, in my house, and that means I'm gonna look out for you."</p><p class="">                "I know," Sam managed, swallowing hard. He turned toward her. "It's just—"</p><p class="">                "I'm lookin' out for your brother too. Even if I don't talk as nice to him as I do to you," she said with a wink. He smiled back.  "Sam, your brother is always going to have your best interests in mind. And he's always gonna go above and beyond to try and look after you. But he's gonna have a hard time understanding that sometimes the best way for him to do that is to let you look after yourself. You're gonna have to help him along a bit there, sugar."</p><p class="">                Sam nodded solemnly. "I will."</p><p class="">                "I know you will." Her face turned suddenly soft and sad. "But will you believe me when I say your father means he's sorry?"</p><p class="">                Sam looked back to the street. Missouri's hand cupped the back of his neck, sure and steady and strong, as the Impala pulled up confidently into place beside the curb.</p><p class=""> </p><p class=""> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p></p><div>
  <p>
    <b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:</b>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>March1993. No reaction to hoodoo wards.<br/></em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p><em><br/></em>*</p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em> <b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/></b> </em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>April 1993. Overheard praying to Judeo-Christian god for several weeks.<br/></em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p><br/> ***</p>
</div><p class="">                <em>Winchesters, </em>Dean decided, <em>don't grocery shop. </em></p><p class="">                At least, <em>this </em>Winchester didn't grocery shop. So far, Dean had hit a meat-locker, two refrigerators, and a geriatric with an unbelievably loud mouth, all because of the stupid, unwieldy shopping cart. Granted, he'd also been trying to check his cell each time, but only working mothers and Sammy-level geeks could do <em>that </em>level of multitasking. Not to mention Missouri's list was clearly designed to steer him from the aisle he was in to the one farthest away, and then to circle back.</p><p class="">                He just wanted to end this and get back to Sam. He <em>knew </em>his brother was fine, probably sitting on the porch scuffing his sneakers on the railings and reading some dumbass book, but Dean would feel so much better if he could <em>see </em>him, in all his geek glory, and know he was just as he left him, with a healed head and a working voice.</p><p class="">                To think of returning to a scared, silent, clinging Sammy—his breath hitched. He set his jaw and tossed a pack of graham crackers in, making it two aisles over before he realized he was supposed to grab Saltines.</p><p class="">                <em>Sam's fine. Sam's healed. Christ, Dean. Get a grip. </em></p><p class="">                He felt hot suddenly. Wished wildly that it was Bobby's he was going back to, Bobby who was watching over his brother. It wasn't that he didn't like or trust Missouri; it was that her home didn't feel like <em>home</em> the way the junkyard did. And more than that, Bobby had always seemed to understand the unspoken codependence between the Winchester brothers, and he never questioned or pushed them toward any independence that didn't come naturally.</p><p class="">                Independence that had been completely undone by Julian Masters.</p><p class="">                Dean sighed as he dumped the graham crackers back on a shelf and grabbed the blue and white box of Saltines. He hated to admit it, but Missouri was right. He'd gotten used to Sam not being farther than an arm's reach away.  He’d let go of his inhibitions and came to be comfortable with his brother's scrawny chest and sharp elbows pressed against his ribcage while they read, watched TV, or slept in the shared bed. Dean didn't wish for a second for his brother to still be struggling and hurting, and he dreaded the long stretches of silence that had left him feeling bereft and alone, but he realized it was going to take time before he was comfortable with his brother being out of his sight. Christ, a few months ago he was trying to sweet talk blondes into going into midnight showings of bad horror movies and banging them in the backseat of their Volvos afterward, stumbling in at three or four while Sam did homework and went to bed by ten.</p><p class="">                Those days seemed like some type of crazy high now. How many times was Dean going to have to nearly lose his brother before he was able to remember to do his damn job and always be prepared for the worst, from anyone?</p><p class="">                Even, he thought, narrowly avoiding crashing into another meat-locker, John Winchester.</p><p class=""> </p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                Missouri's hand lay steady between Sam's shoulder blades as John trudged slowly up the porch. He was tired—and hungover. Sam knew, several weeks ago, even before Julian, he wouldn't have known. Would have only thought he was surly. As usual.</p><p class="">                "Missouri," John said, his voice a deeper growl of Dean's. "Sammy."</p><p class="">                Sam turned to stare back at the yard. Missouri clucked her tongue.</p><p class="">                "Two salt and burns and five extra whiskeys, John Winchester?"</p><p class="">                To Sam's shock, his father chuckled ever so slightly. "The whole way over here, I was wondering if there were some way of blocking off my mind."</p><p class="">                "Then you realized if there were, I’d of told you."</p><p class="">                Sam cast a quick, wary glance toward his father. The smile dropped off John's face, replaced with age and fatigue. Missouri's hand stirred on his back once more.</p><p class="">                "I'll put some fresh coffee on. Sam, you take your father to the parlor. I'll be along in a minute. John, you do us all a favor and keep your damn trap shut when he speaks. And Sam, you think before you do. You hear?"</p><p class="">                "Where's Dean?" John asked, and if Sam's gut hadn't been threatening to climb out of his throat, he would have laughed. His dad was honest-to-God <em>nervous</em>.</p><p class="">                "Buying up the west-side grocer and buying <em>you</em> some <em>very</em> undeserved time. So you two sit yourselves down and come to an understanding before he rolls in and starts hollering." Sam hesitated. Missouri's eyes flashed to his. "No texting, Sam. He'll be back soon enough. Parlor. Coffee. Git." She pushed open the screen door and made a 'shooing' motion with her hand. John nodded to his youngest, and Sam obeyed, even as his gut churned further as he turned his back to his father. Missouri's warm, gentle hand rested lightly on his neck as he passed her, and seconds later he heard the sharp sound of a smack on his father's arm as he followed along.</p><p class="">                "Is that necessary?" John grunted.</p><p class="">                "Could kill a bull with that drinkin'," Missouri snapped.</p><p class="">                Sam smiled, turning briefly at the parlor door to catch the psychic's wink as she headed to the kitchen. He felt a deep relief, a feeling of protection he'd only ever felt before with his brother and father in the same room, long before Julian. He wondered if this is what it would have been like if his mother had lived. Wished he had some memory—<em>any </em>memory—other than a brief kiss and her yellow hair in flames.</p><p class="">                "Sammy," his father said, hesitating at the door.</p><p class="">                "It's Sam," he snapped without thinking, and instantly felt a blast of displeasure from the kitchen.</p><p class="">                <em>Think before you speak.</em></p><p class="">"Sir," Sam added awkwardly.</p><p class="">                John shucked off his coat, laying it carefully down on one of the chairs. "You're better?"</p><p class="">                Sam nodded, reluctant to leave the doorway. "She fixed the hole." His father nodded. "You were hunting?"</p><p class="">                "Easy salt and burns. Not even overly-restless spirits."</p><p class="">                "Dangerous?"</p><p class="">                "No. Just...the Old Barn Restaurant will be missing its stable-hand, and a family three counties over will lose their bid for 'Unsolved Mysteries.'"</p><p class="">                "It could have been good for them." Sam felt bitterness churn in with the anxiety. "But that's not your worry, right? It's supernatural, it dies." <em>Soldier or civilian, right, Dad? It's the enemy, it goes. </em></p><p class="">                John sighed and sank onto Missouri's sofa.  "Last night, before I went to the bar, I drove back to our old house. The one your mother died in." He smiled slightly. "I abandoned it, you know. But a couple bought it and rebuilt the side that burned down. Where your nursery was."</p><p class="">                Sam clutched the doorknob at his back. Willed Missouri to hurry up.</p><p class="">                "It looked...so nice. How I remembered it. The siding was a little different, a lighter blue, but...I thought of pulling up there with Dean in the backseat, and your mother pregnant with you. We got out of the car, and you know what your brother said?" Sam shook his head. "He pointed and said, 'home!' First time he'd ever said that. We'd dragged him to all sorts of open houses, and back to the place we were renting, and he'd never said 'home.' That was it. Your mother looked at me and said, 'Well? You heard the boss.' I was filling out the paperwork before we saw the second story."</p><p class="">                "You let me remember her," Sam managed, his throat swelling. "You let me remember the worst moment of your life and you wanted me to be all right, and share it, like it was just some other case."</p><p class="">                John shut his eyes. "Sammy—"</p><p class="">                "You thought I was less committed to finding what killed her because I couldn't even <em>talk </em>about what I remembered. You left me with Dean and let him think he was doing something wrong because he hadn't stopped the reading and he didn't know how to get me to speak again. You <em>left</em>," his voice cracked. John half-rose, then sank back helplessly. His grief pulled hard at Sam's own chest.</p><p class="">                "I'm sorry," he said, softly. Sam knew he meant it. But he also felt that the apology still rested on the condition that sacrifices had to be made on the hunt, and Sam would have to learn to accept them.     <br/><br/>               "I don't know what you did in Vietnam, but even if you had to—<em>end </em>civilians—if Dean and I had been—"</p><p class="">                "No!" John roared and leapt to his feet. "I really—dammit, Sammy, I really thought, if we could just—<em>see </em>this thing—we'd know—we'd be able to—I could—<em>stop</em>. And you and Dean would have a home. And you could go to school. And...it would be..."</p><p class="">                "It can't be like it was—I don't even <em>remember </em>how it was!" Sam nearly shouted. "I remember motels and tons of schools and hours of training and now my mother burning to death! And every time, you <em>running away</em>!"</p><p class="">                John's mouth opened and closed uselessly, and then he sank back onto the couch. "You're right," he said. "You're right. I'm sorry. I—it's not what—I didn't think it through."</p><p class="">                Sam snorted and turned away, only to feel Missouri's voice in his head once more. He understood: he didn't want to. As a son, it was his right to expect his father to protect him. To plan for these instances. But John Winchester understood planning only in terms of war. And even if he'd given him so little, he'd at least provided him with Dean, who was infinitely more capable of attachment and protection and emotional support than anyone—least of all Dean himself—acknowledged him of being.</p><p class="">                There was a part of him that wanted, <em>raged </em>to hate his father. Especially with the addition of memories of his father's tests, a secret journal that Sam still had to hunt, and a brother wracked with guilt anytime he dared wish for something of his own.</p><p class="">                And the other—the suddenly new, awakened, maybe even <em>psychic </em>part, just couldn't look on a man who was so tired and gripped with guilt and grief and obsession, and feel anything but pity. Even if it felt weak to give into it.</p><p class="">                "Dad—" Sam managed, halting himself before his voice broke. John didn't look up. "Not even...Missouri...knew. What it...was. She just said...said it was...evil."</p><p class="">                "But it looked human?" John said, dark eyes snapping up, back in the hunt.</p><p class="">                "Yes. But...its eyes were...yellow. Golden, really. Like a...cat."</p><p class="">                "That's all?"</p><p class="">                Sam swallowed, found himself barely able to meet his father's eyes. Forced himself to look and try and compose himself, as Dean would.</p><p class="">                "Yes," <em>you lying, journal-hiding bastard, </em>"that's all."</p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                Dean had barely left the parking-lot when he knew, <em>knew </em>something was off. His phone hadn't buzzed and didn't need to--he felt it in his gut. He had the groceries in his arms and was making the trip from the garage to Missouri's porch when he spotted the Impala a good half block away and broke into a run, brown bags dropped and heart thundering in his chest and ears.</p><p class="">                "SAMMY!" he bellowed, slamming open the screen door and nearly knocking the inside one off its hinges. No one answered. Dean took off to the living room and nearly barreled into his younger brother, who held out his hands and caught him by the t-shirt.</p><p class="">                "Dean! I'm okay."</p><p class="">                "Jesus, Sammy. I saw—" His heart clogged his throat as John Winchester got to his feet. "<em>You—</em>" he growled, and launched forward, stopped by his brother' frantic grip on his jacket.</p><p class="">                "Dean—it's fine!" Sam pleaded. "We talked—"</p><p class="">                "Did <em>you </em>convince Missouri to send me away?" Dean snapped at John. "To get a full recap of whatever you let that <em>psycho </em>yank out of his head?"</p><p class="">                "You're right to be angry," John said slowly, "but you—"</p><p class="">                "I won't <em>watch my tone </em>or <em>calm down</em> or--"</p><p class="">                "Dean!" Sam yanked his brother backwards. "Please, it's fine. It's fine. We're fine."</p><p class="">                "Sammy, shut up and go in the kitchen."</p><p class="">                "No—"</p><p class="">                "Do it!"</p><p class="">                "<em>No</em>! You're over-reacting!"</p><p class="">                "Over—" Dean huffed a sarcastic, indignant laugh, "I'm not <em>ever</em> being told that again."  </p><p class="">                "Dean—<em>please</em>. I'm <em>fine.</em>" Sam pushed his brother roughly into the door, hands fisted in his shirt, eyes locked on his brother's. "I'm <em>fine,</em>" he repeated, softer.</p><p class="">                Dean looked from his father, to his brother, and back again. Swallowing heavily, he lightly shoved Sam back. "I know, dummy," he said, though it fell flat. Sam smiled and turned to stand side by side with his brother. He was wracking his brains for a way to break the tension when the ever-present Missouri suddenly took her cue and let out a loud, indignant huff from the front door.</p><p class="">                "Dean Winchester!" she bellowed. "Boy, you want to tell me why the <em>hell</em> there's fruit all over my front lawn?"</p><p class=""> </p><p class=""> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning: Light descriptions of violence/wounds.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p></p><div>
  <p>
    <b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:</b>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>July1993. Hit hard by poltergeist.<br/></em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p><em><br/></em>*</p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em> <b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/></b> </em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>August 1993. Refused to practice choke-holds on D.</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>***</p>
</div><p class="">                Saying goodbye to Missouri was very different from saying goodbye to Bobby.</p><p class="">                 Instead of hugs, Missouri gave each of them brown paper bags with sandwiches, fruit, and slices of pie. Like Bobby, she felt compelled to give advice, but in lieu of the dire and all-too-familiar warning of <em>watch out for Sammy,</em> she snapped <em>you—both you boys—get yourselves here if ever you feel you need it. </em></p><p class="">When Dean moved to join Sam in the back seat, Sam playfully kicked him back and shut the door, grinning his brightest grin when his elder brother flipped him off. Dean still hesitated at the passenger door and threw a wary, stormy look in John's direction before he slammed the door extra hard and blasted the radio. John, for once, didn't reach for the dial or smack his eldest son’s hand away, but settled for his trademark <em>I’d think twice if I didn’t want to be running extra miles</em> glare.</p><p class="">                Sam normally didn't mind long drives. It was one of the rare times he was able to completely relax, read what he wanted, draw if he felt like it, or just watch out the window and think without threat of his father barking at him to get up for a chore or run or train. Since Dean had turned fourteen, he almost always rode shotgun, which permitted Sam to stretch out and camp on the bench in the back.</p><p class="">                Now though, he was nearly crawling out his skin. He wanted to start rustling through the trunk searching for hidden compartments where the journal might be, or go ruffling through his father's forbidden duffels.</p><p class="">                Part of him longed to tell Dean, to make a game of hide and seek like they had when they were young, to double-team and work to distract their dad so the other could rummage through the trunk or burrow into the bottom of bags. But however well-intentioned, Dean quickly proved to be his biggest obstacle.</p><p class="">                Their father was trying—it was clear to Sam's newly-sharpened brain. He backed off on their training, took them to nicer places to eat, tried to watch TV with them in the evenings. Sam found himself vacillating between pity that his father was so clearly disconnected, and rage that he thought ten extra dollars on dinner or a Pay-Per-View movie would endear him to his sons. However, his new graciousness allowed Sam more opportunities to attempt little searches—opportunities that his overbearing brother interrupted.</p><p class="">                "I'm going to the car," said by Sam, was instantly rejoined with "I'll go too," by Dean.</p><p class="">                "I'm going for a run," said by Sam, was instantly rejoined with "I'll go too," by Dean.</p><p class="">                "I'm going to the store," said by Sam, was instantly rejoined with "I'll go too," by Dean.</p><p class="">                "I'm going to the Laundromat," said by Sam, was instantly rejoined with "I'll go too," by Dean.</p><p class="">                Just about the only things that <em>weren't </em>a guarantee of being followed by his brother were done in the bathroom, and even then he got a "don't lock the door."</p><p class="">                Sam swung between longing to share his secret hunt with Dean and wanting to knock him unconscious so he could have five minutes free of hovering.</p><p class="">                He finally snapped after two weeks. Sam had finished folding laundry and made his third attempt of the day to step outside when Dean leapt to his feet and followed. Sam sighed, wandered down to a bench at the end of the parking lot, and slumped miserably onto it while Dean flicked his lighter beside him.</p><p class="">                "Dean," he said carefully, "you remember what Missouri said about us spending time apart?"</p><p class="">                "You mean, when she lied to me so Dad could show up?" He slammed his lighter shut.</p><p class="">                "But I'm normal now."</p><p class="">                "You've never been normal." Dean meant it as a joke, but Sam couldn't prevent the hitch in his breathing. His brother nudged him. "So you want to get rid of me so you can mope, is that it?"</p><p class="">                "I'm not moping."           </p><p class="">                "You keep going off on these little 'errands' of yours, but half the time you just sit and get that look."</p><p class="">                "What look?"</p><p class="">                "That I'm-still-sad-but-if-I-put-my-hands-in-my-hoodie-no-one-will-notice-look. It's a classic."</p><p class="">                "I'm not sad."</p><p class="">                "Dude...you saw—"</p><p class="">                "I know what I saw!" Sam clenched his hands into fists inside his hoodie pockets, realized what he was doing, and ripped them free. "Dammit, Dean, I need...time."</p><p class="">                "Yeah, well," Dean said bitterly, "so do I."</p><p class="">                The boys started slow. Sam heeded Missouri's warnings and let his brother fuss and hover, but did his best to gradually spend time apart. Truth be told, he'd gotten used to Dean's focus and attention, and when they split up for longer and longer periods he found himself missing him more than he expected. Dean still insisted on a stricter routine than they'd had before Julian, and even when he picked up a girl or two in their current town, he always insisted on having meals with Sam and being home around Sam's usual bedtime, even if he did have an annoying habit of launching himself onto the bed and chatting his brother's ear off as he tried to kill the extra energy.</p><p class="">                The nightmares didn’t vanish as quickly as either of them would have liked. For the first few weeks they were back on the road, Sam jolted awake too terrified to move and, upon realizing he couldn’t, terrified that Missouri's fix hadn't held. Dean had to hover over him and turn him on his back so he could see the fireless ceiling, and talk and coax and crack jokes until Sam got his bearings, and often neither of them were able to fall back to sleep for a while.</p><p class="">                After that though, the nightmares came less often, and with less intensity. Sam was more often than not jolted awake by Dean barking his name, and was able to relax as his brother mumbled "just a dream, s'no fire, go back to sleep," from the next bed.</p><p class="">                And then, after weeks of aborted search attempts, bad luck, and failures, the journal found Sam without him even trying.</p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                Dad had taken Dean out to  wipe out a poltergeist, a low-level gig he wanted Dean to take the lead on. Dean had been gunned as usual, scrubbing the weapons and downing coffee, keyed up and bright-eyed as he lay salt lines down and gave Sam strict orders not to leave the room, to answer the phone if they called, and to keep his knife and gun close at hand.</p><p class="">                Sam searched, fruitlessly, for nearly two hours, before giving in and starting on the load of distance learning materials Pastor Jim had secured for him.</p><p class="">                John nearly kicked the door in around midnight, hauling in a limping and swearing Dean.</p><p class="">                "Sonofawhore, sonofabitch, sonofawhorebitchwenchbitchwhore—" Dean ranted.</p><p class="">                "Sam! Kit. Towels. Now!"</p><p class="">                Sam’s stomach lurched before he shot up out of his chair and book off for the bathroom. John had stripped off his jacket to tie around his elder son's left leg, and it was already soaked through. Sam sprinted from the bathroom to find his brother on his back, his father tossing his bloody jacket aside and cutting away what little remained of Dean's left pant leg to get to his son's injuries.</p><p class="">                "Dad." Sam handed over the kit and moved to hold his brother's shoulders down. “Dean—“ he wanted to say something comforting, the way his brother always managed to when Sam was hurt (and Sam had never been <em>this </em>hurt, nor could he remember seeing his brother covered in <em>this </em>much blood and oh God how much can a person lose before--)</p><p class="">                "Fuck almighty, Sam, quit staring at me like that. Someone get me a goddamn drink before you start stitching."</p><p class="">                "I'm seein' bone, son," John said calmly, slicing through the cheap motel towels with his knife and binding the strips around his leg. Dean hissed, and Sam pressed firmer, forcing him to the mattress. "This is a doctor's job."</p><p class="">                "Goddamnit, Dad, no. Just give me some whiskey and something to bite on and you do it."</p><p class="">                "There's no way this didn't get an artery. I'm not messing with it, Dean. Sammy, go grab the Jones' papers. Then get the door and the car ready. Got it?"</p><p class="">                "I'm gonna dig that sonofabitch up and burn him all over! I'm gonna summon his spirit and exorcise it fourteen times and then I'm gonna summon his wife and his kids and his nephew and his niece and his dog and I'm gonna burn them and then I'm gonna—"</p><p class="">                Sam sprinted to the car, found the Jones' insurance policy—one dependent, a son in trade school—opened the back door, and had the motor running when John dragged a still swearing Dean out and dumped him over the Impala's backseat.</p><p class="">                "—burn his whore mother and her whore cat and her whore house and their whore cow and—"</p><p class="">                "Blinds shut, lights out, no answering the phone," John ordered Sam.</p><p class="">                "I'm going with you."</p><p class="">                "Back inside. Check the salt."</p><p class="">                "No, Dad! I'm going with Dean."</p><p class="">                "<em>Inside</em>!" John barked. Dean's tirade ceased.</p><p class="">                "Sam," he called. Sam bolted around to crowd into the back with his brother.</p><p class="">                "I'm here," Sam assured, gripping his brother's arm. "I'm coming—"</p><p class="">                "No—go back inside, bud."</p><p class="">                "No!"</p><p class="">                "Yeah. I need you to."</p><p class="">                "You wouldn't leave me!"</p><p class="">                "Sammy, I'm eighteen. It'll be tough enough for Dad to stick with me. You'd be stuck in the waiting room and it'd drive you nuts, and I'd be worried someone would notice you didn't have a parent with you." He offered a strained, pain-filled grin. "I'm fine, kiddo. I'll be back before you know it and you'll have plenty of time to mother-hen. Kay?"</p><p class="">                Sam's throat felt swollen. "But—"</p><p class="">                "I'm not going anywhere, dummy," Dean said, rubbing roughly on Sam's head with his knuckles. Sam squirmed away. "C'mon, this hurts like hell and I'm bleeding all over Dad's seats. Inside. Promise I'll be back in one piece and you can wait on me hand and foot."</p><p class="">                Sam's eyes burned. "Okay," he managed. "But—Dean, listen—"</p><p class="">                "Shove it. I know, moron. Back at you."</p><p class="">                "Sam, out of the car," John growled. Sam squeezed his brother's arm and nodded. Dean grinned and flipped him off, playfully, as Sam shut the door and watched his father screech out of the parking lot.</p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                The room was a mess. Sam was used to it. He went and got the stain removers from under the sink, the bleach and hand wipes, and set to work. He stripped the bloody sheets and dumped them in the tub with a boatload of Clorox, sprayed the mattress with disinfectant to wreck any DNA, cleaned up the carpet and gathered the remains of the motel towel and his brother's pants in a bag he tossed into the dumpster out back. He neatly packed his and his brother's things, ensured his father's duffels were in order, and then, while hanging the sheets up to dry, debated what to do with his father's jacket. Generally, John forbade the boys to touch his things or rummage through his pockets, but Sam was too restless and anxious to sleep, and his father wouldn't want to ditch the coat and buy a new one of if he didn't have to. Sam picked it up, grabbed the laundry detergent, and headed into the bathroom to work.</p><p class="">                He'd spent a good ten minutes scrubbing at the stains, folding the collar and pleats over, rubbing down the pockets and the back, when he felt a small, square lump down by the end of the right side. He dipped his hands in the coat pockets, but they were empty. He felt again, and sure enough, there was something there—something hard and flat and rigid.</p><p class="">                <em>It couldn't be.</em></p><p class="">                Sam's heart raced. He took a deep breath, told himself his hands weren't shaking. Flipped the coat and ran his hands along the inseam until he felt it: a secret, roughly sewn pocket with a small slit on the top. Folded inside was a small, square, black leather notebook, slight and thin and beaten with age. Sam clutched it, heart pounding, and sank onto the closed toilet lid, trying to steady his heart rate before he flipped it open.</p><p class="">                And he could have cried.</p><p class="">                It was it—it had to be. But it wasn't written in English. It was a combination of symbols, sketches, and what were probably words, but they weren't in any language Sam was familiar with. John hadn't only written it—he'd <em>coded </em>it.</p><p class="">                <em>No. No no no no! </em></p><p class="">                Sam felt tears of fury, hurt, grief, and frustration welling up. The journal—the secret journal, the one devoted to <em>him—</em>was here, in his hands. And he was alone. And he <em>couldn't read it</em>.</p><p class="">                He let a few self-pitying tears fall and slammed the book to the counter. He couldn't possibly recreate it before his father got home: besides, there might be details in the drawings he'd miss. He couldn't decode it. And if he up and confronted him, he'd never know what was inside. Their father, ever the con-man, would manipulate it and keep the journal somewhere Sam would never find it again. And Sam would never know the truth—what he'd been subjected to, what his father believed, what he honestly might <em>be</em>.</p><p class="">                Sam closed his eyes and wiped his damp face. It was time to stop crying and think—<em>hard</em>.</p><p class="">                WWDD: What Would Dean Do?</p><p class="">                The answer came in a jolt. Sam threw on his hoodie, tucked the journal inside, grabbed all the quarters he could find—screw Dean and his stupid arcade/magic-finger obsession—and the room key, and bolted down the main office. The receptionist insisted there was no photocopier but pointed him to the local library—which Sam knew couldn't <em>possibly</em> be open at this hour—and it took his best sad face to get her to look up a local round-the-clock-Kinko’s in the downtown area. Three and a half miles away.</p><p class="">                Sam thanked her and headed back out into the lot. Three and a half miles there, three and a half miles back.</p><p class="">                He paused at the edge of the asphalt, stretched out, and thought of everything Dean had taught him. <em>Don't think ahead, think of what you've left behind. Breathe deep and let it hold. Picture the thirst and the tired and the burn going into your muscles and pushing harder. Never panic. If you start to, run harder until you forget it. Let the focus be physical. </em><em>And whenever you feel like you won't make it, </em><em>just remember I'm right here. </em></p><p class="">His brother's voice in his head, Sam took off down the darkness of the road.</p><p class=""> </p><p class=""> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p></p><div>
  <p>
    <b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:</b>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>December 1993. Fractured femur. No adverse reactions to x-rays and other equipment.<br/></em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p><em><br/></em>*</p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em> <b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/></b> </em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>May 1994. Discovered penicillin allergy. Responded positively to epinephrine.<br/></em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>***</p>
</div><p class="">                The 24-hour Kinko’s wasn't, in fact, a 24-hour Kinko’s.</p><p class="">                Instead, it was a Kinko’s that closed between 3:00-6:00 a.m., which Sam imagined was prime panic time. He arrived, out of breath and sweat-soaked, in time to see a young woman locking the door while an older man stood by.</p><p class="">                "Sorry," the man said as Sam approached, "new shift at six. Plenty of time before class."</p><p class="">                "No," Sam gasped, even before he had a lie in place. "I've—I've got to—<em>now</em>."</p><p class="">                "Six a.m.," the lady said. Sam wanted to hit her. The man just rolled his eyes.</p><p class="">                "No, I—my dad—I told him it was done."</p><p class="">                "Done?" the lady asked. The man was looking toward his car.</p><p class="">                "My extra credit."</p><p class="">                "It's extra. He doesn't need to know. Besides, how'd he let you out?" the man grunted. Sam gave what Dean called his "annoying-as-shit"puppy-look." The woman instantly melted.</p><p class="">                "You just need to copy that, hon?"</p><p class="">                "Yes, please."</p><p class="">                "Dammit, Sarah. I'm not—"</p><p class="">                "Well go on ahead. I don't mind. C'mon, honey," she said. No matter what Dean said about his smooth talking charm, Sam's eyes seemed to accomplish just as much.</p><p class="">                Sarah helped him align the journal just right and copy it as quickly as possible.</p><p class="">                "This is...for school?" she asked, frowning as the copies spat out on her right.</p><p class="">                "Yes," Sam lied, flipping to a new page, heart racing. "We've been reading...uh...Lord of the Rings. And the teacher gave us an assignment of...uh...writing in a...made-up language."</p><p class="">                "Oh....God, I <em>love </em>those books! Sam and Frodo? Merry and Pippin? Did you know there are <em>experts </em>in Elvish?" Sam had to fight back a smile as she talked. Dean, he imagined, would carry him just about anywhere: though if Sam had a ring causing his paralysis, he doubted Dean would be as willing. He suddenly, achingly, missed his brother, then told himself it was stupid to miss him when he'd been gone less than two hours, and then his heart began to race after realizing he'd been gone over an <em>hour </em>from the motel. He grabbed the rest of the journal pages and bolted for the door, dropped a twenty onto the copier, and told her to keep the change as he sprinted for the door.</p><p class="">                "Thank you," he managed, before she could close up, "so much!"</p><p class="">                "For Frodo, right?" she called as he braced himself, drew a deep breath, and began a steady run down the street.</p><p class="">                "Sure!" he called, thinking of Dean, "for our hero!"</p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                Sam was yanking off his over shirt before he even made it to the motel door. He dropped his clothes and dove into the shower, rubbing any and all possible scents of sweat and grime off of himself, then tossed his clothes into the laundry bag, shoving other clothes on top.</p><p class="">                He tore the sheets from the shower, where he'd hung them to dry, and re-made the beds, gathered up his dirty clothes and buried them under his other ones in the corner, and shoved his shoes back under the bed.</p><p class="">                Then, finally, he buried the copied journal pages in the very bottom of his duffel, and replaced the original inside the secret pocket of the still bloody jacket.         </p><p class="">                All he could think, looking around, was <em>Dad's gonna know, Dad's gonna know, Dad's gonna know.</em></p><p class="">                <em>The hell he will</em>, his brother's voice rang in his head, <em>awesome as he is, Dad's not a bloodhound, Sammy.</em></p><p class="">                Sam started as a key fumbled in the lock. He hastily shoved the papers under his pillow and shot to his feet. John entered, looking exhausted, Dean hanging on him in a half-drunken embrace.</p><p class="">                "...cuz I feel fine, end of the world but I feel fine, so damn <em>fine</em>," Dean laughed. John sighed and hauled his eldest to the closest bed, settling him in before yanking the semi-damp covers away.</p><p class="">                "Sam...get your old man a drink, will you?" John asked. Sam hesitated, eyeing his brother.</p><p class="">                "Dad...is he—"</p><p class="">                "Your brother is high," John declared, at the same time Dean broke in saying, "I'm living on a prayer, Sammy. Just livin' on a prayer. We're all livin' on a prayer." He burst out laughing. "And I feel <em>fine</em>."</p><p class="">                Sam poured his dad a glass of whiskey, which he downed in one swallow. "He's okay?" Sam asked softly, as Dean continued to laugh.</p><p class="">                "He gave them a hell of a time, so they gave him a sedative on top of a bunch of pain killers." John held out his glass, and Sam refilled it. "I'd say he's the best he's ever been."</p><p class="">                "I'm the best that's <em>ever </em>been. Fiddle of gold against my soul and I get the fiddle of the gold and keep my soul. Sonofabitch." Dean laughed. John sighed.</p><p class="">                "You did a good job on clean-up," he said, hand resting roughly on Sam's shoulder. Sam tried to hold himself very still, stay relaxed, and not let on that his heart was pounding. Everything in the room seemed like a neon sign broadcasting his discovery—the smelly running shoes, the extra shirt in the laundry, his still-damp hair.</p><p class="">                "When I told my old man I was going down to the recruitment office, y'know what he said?" Sam shook his head. His father never spoke about his life before the war. "He said 'Johnny, I hope one day you have a son as bull-headed and gung-ho as you. And then I hope you remember me saying this. It'll be proof the universe dispenses justice." Sam looked from his father to his still-giggling brother. John emptied glass number three.</p><p class="">                "Johnny?" Sam finally ventured. John snorted and cuffed him lightly on the side of the head.</p><p class="">                "You repeat that and you'll be on grave-digging for the next ten years."</p><p class="">                It was a rare moment when exhaustion won over the usual gruffness, and Sam normally would have savored the quiet, close relief of his family together after a hunt, his father tired but relaxed, his brother laughing like an imbecile and humming tunes only his high mind recognized.</p><p class="">                Instead, he felt all the more an outsider, thinking of all the moments previous when he'd thought he was safe and accepted and, in reality, was being tested and recorded for any signs of the evil that was growing in him. All while Dean was groomed to be another formidable soldier, an ally for John—and a guard, not of Sam for <em>Sam's </em>sake, for the lives of all those he could turn and slaughter.</p><p class="">                Even Dad. Even Dean.</p><p class="">                John's hand rested on the back of his neck, causing Sam to jump. "You can crash on the couch if you want, bud. I'll take the bed in here and keep an eye on things."</p><p class="">                <em>Sure, Dad. God forbid I can't control myself and start sucking Dean's wounds in the middle of the night. </em></p><p class="">                "Thanks," Sam mumbled, and paused to wish Dean goodnight, though all his brother did was half-snore, half-laugh, in response.  </p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                Dean was having a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. First, he'd woken up because his leg was on fire, his head was being hammered from the inside <em>and </em>out, and his stomach had somehow managed to be hungry and nauseated at the same time. Then, before he'd rectified any of it, his father launched into a lecture on all the things he should have done to prevent being thrown down a staircase and getting his jeans and leg ripped up by a bunch of rusty nails. <em>Then</em> he took off to finish the job that had been Dean's, leaving him with too few pills, a bruised ego, and only two sources of entertainment—the TV and Sammy.</p><p class="">                The TV got old. Tormenting Sam was fun for a good hour or so, but then that too got old. Things that would normally get his brother making faces and bitching at him didn't, because Sam was in care-giving mode, which meant he took all of Dean's crap and returned it with a "need anything?" that made Dean want to drink or fight. Maybe both.</p><p class="">                He fell asleep instead.</p><p class="">                His head wasn't pounding anywhere near as bad when he woke, and his stomach had settled. His leg still hurt, but it wasn't quite as <em>what the hell I'm on fire! </em>and a little more <em>you sonofabitch, don't ever do this to me again</em>, so he counted that as a win. Sam was perched on the bed across from him, bent over a set of papers, making notes and frowning so the world knew geek-boy was caught on a problem.</p><p class="">                "Need a hand?" Dean asked. Sam jumped.</p><p class="">                "Geez, Dean! How long have you been awake?"</p><p class="">                "Like...thirty seconds, dude." Sammy was turning red. "That porn or something?"</p><p class="">                "Screw you, Dean," he mumbled, reshuffling the papers.</p><p class="">                "C'mon, Sammy, it's a healthy, natural thing. Did you steal it? Tell me you stole it."</p><p class="">                "It's homework, not porn!"</p><p class="">                "Brunettes, blondes, or redheads?"</p><p class="">                "More like science, math, and history. Ever hear of those?"</p><p class="">                "Is it a comic? You're not going to be one of those guys who jerks off to Wolverine, are you?"</p><p class="">                "God, Dean, shut <em>up</em>," Sam groaned, his face now flaming. Dean was proud of himself for breaking through Sammy's inner mother-hen.</p><p class="">                "Sorry, dude. I'm bored as hell."</p><p class="">                "Well, I was <em>going </em>to tell you what I did to help, but now—"</p><p class="">                "Oh, don't get your panties in a bunch. Unless that's what you're into—"</p><p class="">                "You are the <em>biggest </em>jerk!" Sam yanked a pillow off his bed and hurled it at him. Dean laughed as it bounced off.</p><p class="">                "Alright, Hef, truce! What'd you do for your poor injured brother who bathed and clothed and fed you and read the same three books over and over and stole four bikes in four towns so you could learn how to ride and now just wants a little entertainment in his time of infirmity?"  </p><p class="">                "I replaced your pills with cyanide. You're going to go slowly," Sam deadpanned.</p><p class="">                "Seriously, does my surprise involve pizza?"</p><p class="">                "Dad left us money. But he didn't say we could get delivery."</p><p class="">                "Screw it, we'll only be here a day more. Get bacon <em>and </em>pepperoni. And peppers and onions. And Pepsis. And see if they have anything with sugar."</p><p class="">                "Fine." Sam gave a long-suffering sigh and got to his feet.</p><p class="">                "Wait! Tell me what you did."</p><p class="">                "Forget it."</p><p class="">                "Don't be a bitch. I was just kidding." His little brother's pout was in full-form. "Sammy, my leg hurts, my head hurts, and I haven't eaten in over a day. Cut me some slack, bro. I was just teasing." And goddamn, it <em>shouldn't </em>be this easy, but it was. Sam's face morphed into instant guilt and empathy. He even picked up the pillow he'd launched. "So?"</p><p class="">                "It's no big deal," Sam said. "But I went down to the office earlier and said I lost my key. When the receptionist went in the back to get the spare, I hopped on the computer and cleared the ban on <em>Pay</em><em>-</em><em>Per</em><em>-</em><em>View</em> from C.C. Thompson's account."</p><p class="">                "You didn't."</p><p class="">                "I did."</p><p class="">                Dean burst out laughing. "That's my <em>boy</em>!" Sammy smiled, still blushing, but honestly, shyly, proud. "Hand me the remote, tell the pizza to get its ass here, and we are pulling an all-nighter!"</p><p class="">                "Dad will be back."</p><p class="">                "The hell he will. He'll take out the bad guy and go to the bar and you know it. Let's watch a fight. You want to watch a fight? Or a movie. Or porn. Seriously, dude, have you seen any yet? Do we have to do the birds and the bees? I'm not into costumes myself, but if Wolverine is what gets you—"</p><p class="">                "I <em>hate</em> you," Sam groaned, but was still grinning as the bolted out into the living room. Dean smiled as he flipped to the now viewable <em>Pay</em><em>-</em><em>Per</em><em>-</em><em>View</em> section. Sometimes little brothers could be awesome.  </p><p class="">                He and Sammy split the pizza and drank their sodas and Sam had even scored them something that wasn't quite a brownie and wasn't quite cake, but it was sweet and warm and they had a Fork War over the last bite, so Dean counted it as a win. His leg did hurt, still, and his head wasn't thrilled with the wrestling Sam had agreed to watch, but for the first time since Julian, he felt...<em>normal. </em></p><p class="">                He thought back to Missouri sending him to the store, insisting that he needed time to heal, and how angry and suspicious he'd been. He hated to admit it to himself and he'd <em>never </em>tell her to her face—but she'd probably know it anyway, because she was a know-it-all—but she'd been right. He was scared to let Sam out of his sight. Scared his brother would retreat back into that horrible silence, where nothing Dean said or did had any effect. He let his mind wander, very briefly, to Amanda back in Truman, to her claim that he was just a "sad, lonely little kid."</p><p class="">                Screw you, Amanda. Maybe he'd thought, from time to time, that that's all he was. But he knew now he didn't even know the definition of scared and lonely until Sam lost his himself somewhere in his own mind and nothing Dean did could save him. He'd take pissed Sam, moody Sam, grim Sam, tired Sam, and sad Sam over post-Julian Sam any day.</p><p class="">                "I ate too much," his little brother moaned. And Dean was sick and hurting, dammit, so he indulged and tossed an arm over the kid's shoulders, yanking him close.</p><p class="">                "Want to watch a movie?"</p><p class="">                "Only if it's funny."</p><p class="">                "You're not going to laugh off those calories, tubby."</p><p class="">                "I don't want any of your stupid action flicks. Or horror films. Or <em>porns</em>."</p><p class="">                "All right, then. My Little Pony it is."</p><p class="">                "Jerk."</p><p class="">                "Hello Kitty: the Island Adventure?"</p><p class="">                "Asshole."</p><p class="">                "The Disney Princesses meet in Heaven?"</p><p class="">                "I hate you and I hope you die."</p><p class="">                "But Sam...my leg really, really <em>hurts</em>."</p><p class="">                Sam gave him a half-hearted punch in the ribs. "<em>Fine</em>,<em>" </em>he sighed. Dean chuckled, then scrolled until he found a comedy he knew they'd both wanted to see and leaned into the headboard as it started. Sam was unusually twitchy—and that meant a lot, for Sam—and kept looking back at his neglected assignments to the point that it seemed weird, even for his dumb dork of a brother. "Bro, I hate to say it, but you've lost too much of freshmen year to pass. Just give it a rest—we'll get you caught up, I swear."</p><p class="">                Sammy snorted. "Catching me up," he said, sounding almost bitter. "Yeah. That's what I'm doing. Catching up."</p><p class="">                "Sammy?"</p><p class="">                His brother was quiet for a minute. "Dean, you ever think of keeping a journal of your own? A hunter's journal?"</p><p class="">                "Dad's got one. It's the best."</p><p class="">                "I know. But your <em>own.</em>"</p><p class="">                Dean frowned. "I don't <em>need </em>to. Dad's got everything we ever need to know about anything in there."</p><p class="">                "You don't ever want to write ideas about what you're hunting, and where? And...who you're hunting <em>with</em>?"</p><p class="">                "I'm only ever hunting with you and Dad. I don't need to write that down. Besides, anything too weird or strange, Dad does. Why?"</p><p class="">                "Nothing," Sam muttered, staring at the television.</p><p class="">                "Seriously, Sammy. Why?" No answer. Dean shut the TV off. "Is this about Julian?"</p><p class="">                "No!"</p><p class="">                "Really," Dean said sarcastically, gaze focused intently on Sam. "What about the sonofabitch?"</p><p class="">                "Dean--" Sam's voice wavered. He refused to look at his brother. Dean squeezed his brother's scrawny shoulder.</p><p class="">                "Look, kiddo, if you want to see what Dad wrote about that whole mess, I'll get it for you. Just give me a week or two." A wave of relief passed over Sam's face, and Dean smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, okay? You're strong, you're healthy. We're fine. Everything's going to be fine. I promise," he squeezed his brother briefly, then flipped the TV back on. "So. You <em>sure </em>you don't want to see a good porn?"</p><p class=""> </p><p class=""> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sam's definition of the Occam's Razor principle is actually the most common misconception of the Occam's Razor principle. I believe it goes without saying that Dean's explanation is wrong too.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class=""> </p><p class="">                For the first week John had them back on the road, Sam spent half his day consumed with desire to decipher the secret journal, and the other half panicked that his father knew what he was attempting. John finished cleaning the bloody coat himself and wore it without a word, and it took all of Sam’s focus not to eye the hidden pocket in the lining. No matter what his dad said, even common, casual things—<em>Sammy, you want to sit up front and let Dean stretch out his leg? Sam, will you grab the spare cartridges out the back? Sam, need you scrubbing down the sawed-offs—</em>were suddenly rife with double meaning. Everything seemed to be some hidden trap, some carefully constructed test to see what kind of <em>thing </em>he was, to keep him away from Dean and in John’s line of fire. The anxiety from those early, eerie, silent days after Julian crept back, until Sam was half-sure his father was only waiting until the right moment to exterminate him.</p><p class="">                He wanted—<em>needed</em>—more time. He needed the truth first. He needed to know what his father had discovered. He needed to properly say goodbye to Dean.</p><p class="">                But as the first week turned into the second, and then the third, Sam barely got more than a glimpse or two at his photocopies. Dean was the worst patient of all time, and he was going half out of his mind having to hobble around, unable to run or hunt or even hustle a pool game. Sam did his best to be patient and calm when his brother barked at him to turn the TV down, or turn the radio up, or stop reading, or stop asking him what he needed, because Dean had never been anything but patient and careful whenever Sam was out of commission.</p><p class="">                Though, he thought to himself, moving to adjust the colors on the piece-of-crap set for the fourth time in an hour, he didn’t think he was ever <em>this </em>difficult a patient. He really wouldn’t mind <em>Dean </em>losing his ability to speak for a day or so. Or until his leg fully healed.</p><p class="">                The only good thing about Dean’s room-arrest was that Sam was frequently sent out on errands and research trips that his elder brother would normally accompany him on. Though his father kept him on a strict schedule and required him to report in, Sam had long been juggling homework with huntwork, and was able to slowly build his own mini-library of symbols that appeared to match the journal’s.</p><p class="">                John had apparently used a mix of Babylonian, Phoenician, and Aramaic alphabets, with Latin connectors (for words such as <em>like and, to, so</em>, etc.) and Greek mixed in every couple of words, seemingly at random. It didn’t take long to realize why so many of John’s entries were so short—writing anything must have been an exercise in frustration in itself, forget about going back and <em>reading </em>it.</p><p class="">                Bit by bit, he pieced together a letter here, a word there, a symbol there. In library after library, in stolen moments while his brother slept, in a couple extra seconds in the bathroom, he began to see words, and then a narrative. He began to see a timeline of his life—the timeline of a baby <em>monster’s </em>life—as his father must have seen it. He saw himself protesting hunts, lying about the truth during his father’s “what’s out there in the dark speech” (not <em>his </em>fault Dean had already spilled), questioning John’s authority and the necessity of murder. Things that had always seemed a part of him now seemed sinister and secretive, and the silence the psychic had abandoned him in when he’d tripped Sam’s senses seemed like a mercy. With nothing impeding him, he’d been in touch with his infant instincts, and they’d tried to warn him, loud and clear, about the monster embedded inside and the father who’d been trying to draw him out all along.             </p><p class="">                He finished it on a Tuesday. Took the photocopied pages into the bathroom, locked the door, and rounded off the last of the decoding by flashlight. Then he read, re-read, and re-re-read, the story of his infancy, toddler-hood, early childhood, tweens—everything up to Julian, where the entries had ended.</p><p class="">                Botched hunts. Scraped knees. Arguments, big and small. Holy Baby Formula—he couldn’t help but think that Dean would love that, would love call it “Jesus Juice,” sympathy for the devils. As a monster, it appeared, he was badass. Nothing his father had designed had touched him.</p><p class="">                Sam carefully folded the papers up, crept back into his room, and buried them down at the bottom of his duffel. John was out conducting reconnaissance on a property with a haunted well, and Dean was sprawled on his back snoring.  Sam slipped into his shoes, zipped up his hoodie, grabbed his room key, and stepped out into the cool night. They were somewhere in the mountains in Colorado, not all that high, but high enough that it didn’t feel anything at all like early summer. He walked to the end of the motel and toward the picnic tables clustered a hundred feet or so from the woods. Dean would <em>kill </em>him if he knew he was out here with only his butterfly knife. Dad would launch into the lecture to end all lectures and assign Sam to latrine scrubbing for a month.</p><p class="">                <em>Note in Dad’s journal: June, 1998. Covered in bleach and Mr. Clean. Eyes got red and sneezed a lot. </em></p><p class="">                Sam laughed, and then he sobbed, and then he sat down on one of the benches and put his face on his knees and cried until his stomach and head and back ached and the cold had dug in deep in his bones. And then he sat and stared off into the woods and felt, for just a moment, that he wouldn’t care all that much if something came charging out of the trees and ended him.  </p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                <em>The faster Sam tried to run, the slower he moved. He tried to scream and what came out was a tiny, pathetic little wail. Something inside him was wrong, and someone behind him was after him. He tried to move and felt his limbs seizing up. Panic snaked up from inside him as the ground opened up and hellfire embraced his feet, faster than quicksand.</em></p><p class="">                "Sam! Wake up!" Dean barked.</p><p class="">                Sam jolted awake, heart racing. His face was wet; the sheets, sweat-soaked. The nightstand light was on, and his brother's warm weight was perched beside him, Dean’s hand firm over his own racing heart.</p><p class="">                "You with me?" Dean demanded.</p><p class="">                Sam couldn’t even nod. He felt watery and wrong. So wrong. Barely an hour ago, he’d keyed back into the room and collapsed in his bed. He didn’t remember getting ready for bed, but he was in his sweats and t-shirt, so he must have changed and tucked himself in.</p><p class=""> Dean brushed his brother's bangs away and rubbed lightly with his thumb over his heart.</p><p class="">                "Easy does it," he said, softening his voice. "You're alright. Just another nightmare." Sam nodded. "You want some water?" Sam nodded again. Dean thumped him on the shoulder and limped off into the darkened kitchen. Sam managed to get himself to a sitting position, trying to clean the sweat and tears from his face. Dean returned and settled beside him while he drank, studying him.</p><p class="">                "It's been weeks since you had one that bad," he finally began.</p><p class="">                "I'm okay," Sam said automatically.</p><p class="">                "Sammy," Dean said firmly, in that <em>look at me</em> tone, "you need to tell me if you're not. If you're feeling anything like before. Then I can get us back to Missouri."</p><p class="">                "I don't need Missouri."</p><p class="">                "No offense, bud, but I'm the one who’s calling the shots on this. You want to tell me what that dream was about?"</p><p class="">                Sam's throat felt clogged. He shook his head slightly. Dean let out a slightly aggravated sigh. Sam hesitated only briefly before he leaned slowly forward and rested his forehead against his brother's shoulder. Seconds later Dean’s steady hand lay between his shoulder blades, causing Sam's breath to hitch and his eyes to burn once more.</p><p class="">                "C'mon," he murmured, smoothing Sam’s hair, "no more checking out, remember?"</p><p class="">                "I think—" Sam's voice cracked. "I think I'm just—having the same dreams over."</p><p class="">                "Nothing new?"</p><p class="">                Sam shook his head. He didn't dare look up. Dean would know he was lying. His brother ruffled his hair and thumped him on the back. "C'mon. Go change, you're soaked. You're gonna have to bunk in with me again. I don't remember you being this sweaty as a rugrat."</p><p class="">                "It was the fire," Sam managed. Dean gave him a light squeeze.</p><p class="">                "I know," he said softly. "It's all right. C'mon. You got clean sweats in the laundry basket. I'll make you some of that tea. You'll be out in no time."</p><p class="">                "Dean—" Sam fisted a hand in his brother's shirt as he stood. Dean cocked an eyebrow. "I don't...need any tea."</p><p class="">                "Fine. Sweats. Shirt. Change. Move it."</p><p class="">                Five minutes later Sam was settled on the inside of his elder brother's bed while Dean switched his gun to the side closer to the door and ordered him to hit the light. In the dark Sam slowed his breathing, trying to match Dean's, trying to keep the tears at bay.</p><p class=""><em>                Have we—have </em>I<em>, killed things that weren't aware that they were evil? Children, even? Do they all go to hell, automatically, even if it wasn’t their fault? Even if they hadn’t fully turned yet? What other way of looking at this could their possibly be?</em></p><p class="">                "Dean?" Sam murmured, "you ever heard of Occam's Razor?"</p><p class="">                "Sure," Dean mumbled.               </p><p class="">                "Really?"</p><p class="">                "Duh. Occam was a god...super famous. And...he had to shave to...impress a woman. And she was like...you shaved your beard, now I love you...I'll never make you shave again. Then she threw his razor down to Earth. And it made something...super famous. And people go to take pictures and cry about true love."</p><p class="">                "<em>Dean," </em>Sam groaned, "Occam's Razor is a principle that said the simplest explanation should be viewed as the truth."</p><p class="">                "I second that."</p><p class="">                "<em>You</em>? You think flickering lights mean undead and restless spirits!"</p><p class="">                "What else would it be?"</p><p class="">                "Electric shortages?  Power station gaps?"</p><p class="">                "You're <em>such</em> a dork."</p><p class="">
  <em>                No, Dean. I'm a monster. The simplest, most straight-forward explanation is that a monster leaned into my crib and made me one. And you and Dad and everyone else I love is in danger just by knowing me. </em>
</p><p class="">"Sam," Dean sighed, tugging him closer, and Sam's throat swelled when he thought that, maybe, there would be a day when his brother hated to touch him, "just go to sleep."</p><p class="">                "Dean," Sam's breath hitched. "I don't want to hurt you."</p><p class="">                "Jesus, Sammy, you won't. You <em>can't</em>. I won't let anything bad happen. Not to you, not to me. Got it?" Dean's hand shifted and rubbed a small circle on his back. "C'mon, bud. It's just dreams. Just bad dreams. Go back to sleep."</p><p class="">                Sam began to shake. Dean scooted a little closer. "You miss my singing voice that much?"</p><p class="">                "Zep," Sam managed. Dean began to hum accordingly.</p><p class="">                <em>Watch out for your brother. </em></p><p class=""><em>                Not for </em>his <em>sake. For </em>yours<em>. </em></p><p class="">If Dean knew...Sam closed his eyes tightly. He couldn't live with his brother hating him, holding a gun on him, rage and hate in his face. He couldn't live with <em>himself </em>if one day, he saw that expression and thought of Dean as nothing more than something to rip to pieces. Everything—the memories unleashed by Julian, his father's hard-ass attitude toward Dean, his long-term suspicions written in secret code—boiled down to one simple principle: Sam was a monster. Maybe a fledgling one, and unknowing, unwilling, but a monster was a monster was a monster.</p><p class="">                And if there was one thing Winchesters knew, it was that, when you meet a monster, there's nothing to do but put it down.</p><p class="">                Sam drew a deep breath. Dean's voice was softer, the hand slowing. His brother was putting <em>himself </em>to sleep, unaware that Sam was finally feeling sharp and alert for the first time since he'd found that damn book.</p><p class="">                Occam said: Sam is a monster.</p><p class="">                Occam said: Sam must be killed.</p><p class="">                Occam said: A hunter must kill him.</p><p class="">                Sam said: Only on my terms.</p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                Dean had taken it upon himself to teach Sammy bow-hunting. When he'd first suggested it, Sam had made a sour face and said, "If anyone on <em>earth</em> shouldn't be allowed a bow and arrow, it's you," to which Dean had retorted with something about Robin Hood and Little John that had Sam turning bright red and hollering "<em>Dean</em>!" while his brother laughed maniacally.</p><p class="">                John watched from the motel window as his boys shot at a makeshift target just inside the tree line. Dean would pause to guide Sam's arm into place and gesture, and even from the distance, it was clear his younger was improving. He thought back to that day he'd watched the boys sparring, Sam laughing as his big brother spun him around, and felt the all-too-familiar envy in his chest.</p><p class="">                <em>You've lost some of their trust, John. Was it worth it?</em></p><p class="">John took a deep breath. He'd been telling himself for years that he treated his boys as equals: that they'd endure the same training, same discipline, same structure.</p><p class="">                That he wasn't arming Dean for any reason other than a potential external threat.</p><p class="">                That he was harsh on Sam because the boy needed to learn to fall in line.</p><p class="">                That, despite everything, he wasn't a terrible father.</p><p class="">                He glanced to the clock and wondered if longing for whiskey at 9 a.m. was a definitive sign of alcoholism.</p><p class="">                His cell phone jolted him out of his thoughts. He sighed and flipped it open, rubbing his eyes. "This is John."</p><p class="">                "Julian Masters."</p><p class="">                John sat up straighter. "Julian—I left several messages."</p><p class="">                "I wasn't able to locate those symbols in any existing or dead language, so I went into retreat for alternative help."</p><p class="">                "Uh...sorry. Alternative—"</p><p class="">                "Spiritual. But not your type of spirits."</p><p class="">                John felt bile rising in this throat. Not this. Please oh please oh please not—</p><p class="">                "They're demonic, John. The symbols are a very twisted version of Enochian, the commonly accepted angelic language. But they've been...bastardized, let's say. It's a dialect attributed only to some of hell's most powerful demons."</p><p class="">                "How do you know—"</p><p class="">                "Because I've spoken to them."</p><p class="">                "Wait, you—you communicate with—<em>demons</em>?"</p><p class="">                "I transact with them when needed."</p><p class="">                "Why did you not tell me this?"</p><p class="">                "It wouldn't have mattered."</p><p class="">                "Of course it—I let—you told me—you hurt my <em>son—</em>"</p><p class="">                "If I'd told you I could obtain the identity of the creature you seek by transacting with demons, you would have told me to do so without hesitating."</p><p class="">                "But I wouldn't have let you explore Sam!"</p><p class="">                "You absolutely would have. In fact, I imagine you would have been twice as eager, since we both know tracking and hunting a demon is next to impossible."</p><p class="">                "You sonofabitch."</p><p class="">                "Listen closely--those wards were unbreachable for me, not because they were <em>made</em> by a supernatural being, but because they were located in<em>side </em>of one." </p><p class="">                "No. You..." The room wavered. Outside Dean bellowed something that sounded like, "Suck it, Merry Men!" Sammy's hoodie was tossed on the bed. Dean had left his leather jacket--John's old one--on the back of a chair. Sammy was reading <em>Animal Farm</em>. Dean had a <em>Penthouse</em> hanging out from under the mattress. His boys were still alive because he'd protected them. His boys were still his <em>boys</em>... "You're wrong. Sammy's...I've...I've kept track..." he fumbled for his smaller journal, the one he never permitted out of his pocket, the one the boys were never allowed to see.</p><p class="">                It was gone.</p><p class="">                "John, I'm truly sorry. Sam was not born evil. But you know, as I do, that monsters are not always born--they're made. There is a tremendous amount of power under those locks, and those wards aren't meant to be permanent. They're written to unlock in specific scenarios, to gradually release Sam's...abilities."</p><p class="">                John flung himself on his knees, peering under the table, the sofa, the beds. The journal, <em>where was the goddamn journal!</em></p><p class="">                "Your boy is <em>not human, </em>Winchester."</p><p class="">                John tore away the couch cushions. The bedspreads.</p><p class="">                “It’s ingenious, really. A boy, a human child, with a demon’s power. He can pass every test we know of, cross iron rails, escape devil's traps, and still possess the psychic and supernatural abilities of the most powerful damned. He will be unstoppable."</p><p class="">                He yanked out drawers. The nightstand.</p><p class="">                "It's a matter of time. I'm sorry to tell you this. But you've done the right thing. Now you’ll, unfortunately, need to finish it."</p><p class="">                The journal was in his own knapsack. John sank into a kitchen chair, breathing hard. He didn't remember putting it in there, but seeing it safely out of his sons' reach made him weak in the knees.</p><p class="">                "John?"</p><p class="">                "I'm here," he gasped. "Sorry. Give me a sec." He flipped to the last page he'd written in.</p><p class="">                The air left his lungs in a gust.</p><p class="">*</p><p class=""><b></b> <em>A note in John's journal as decoded by John:</em><br/><em>I know everything.<br/>I'm ready to go now.</em></p><p class=""> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class=""><b> <em>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:</em><br/></b> <em>We know what I need to do.</em></p><p class=""> ***</p><p class="">                Dean felt like an old man,  tired as he was. His leg was coming along<em>—</em>John had promised the stitches could come out in a week or so<em>—</em>and he'd done his best to stay active, but two hours guiding Sammy with a crossbow, then doing some very light sparring, and he was about done in. He was <em>so </em>over having to stay indoors. And what with beach season up ahead, this Frankenstein thing was messing with his game.</p><p class="">                Not that Dean had ever really <em>been </em>to the beach. Or worn shorts. But still. It was going to be a hell of a shock to the next chick he landed.</p><p class="">                John had left a note saying he'd be gone at least for the night, follow the usual protocol. He'd left forty bucks beside it, which just felt like insult to injury. If Dean’s damn leg was behaving, he and Sammy would walk into town and blow those forty bucks without a problem, and Dean could probably make up all of it in pool or poker so they wouldn’t have to tell their dad they'd spent the night goofing off. Instead, he gimped into the bathroom to scrub down his leg and change the gauze, and came out to find Sammy sitting in full-on-Pound-Puppy mode.</p><p class="">                "So," he sighed, flopping down on his bed. "Y'wanna score us Pay-Per-View again?" Sam didn't answer. "Sammy?"</p><p class="">                "Sure. It's early, though," he said quietly.</p><p class="">                "Yeah, well. I kind of suck at this whole fun-thing right now."</p><p class="">                "I had fun today, Dean," Sam said, a little too seriously for Dean's liking.  </p><p class="">                "All right, Friar Tuck. Think about what you want to do for dinner. If you go for take-out, I'll go charm whoever's at the front desk and get the fun-embargo lifted."</p><p class="">                "Sure," Sam said, then stood abruptly and ducked into the bathroom. Dean closed his eyes, letting himself drift a bit. Other than a sudden, horrible dream a few nights ago, Sammy had been doing well. Strong, studious, and caring even when Dean had been a total pain in the ass. He'd been having a bit of a hard time accepting it, but he could see that Sammy wasn't so much of a kid anymore. Part of Dean would always see Sam as one, and he <em>was </em>only fourteen, but, like Dean had, he’d been made to grow up fast, and as a result was well ahead of his peer group.  </p><p class="">                Still, it was a little hard for Dean to think of his kid brother losing his kiddie qualities. Though it was also kind of fun to think about what they could do, and share, as adults—hunts, drinks, girls.</p><p class="">                Okay...maybe girls was a little too weird. But hunts and drinks? Fair game.</p><p class="">                 Dean felt the edge of his bed sink in and pulled his arm away to see Sam staring at him. "Hey," he grinned.</p><p class="">                "You okay?"</p><p class="">                "Tired."</p><p class="">                "You're gettin' old."</p><p class="">                Dean snorted and glanced at Sam's clothes, noticing he was in a T-shirt, shorts, and his good sneakers. "You going running?"</p><p class="">                "It's a nice day for it."</p><p class="">                "If you wait a bit I'll go with you."</p><p class="">                "I don't think you're ready for that."</p><p class="">                "You know me. Ready for anything." Sam rolled his eyes. "Seriously. I should try."</p><p class="">                "Nah." Sam's hand touched his shoulder. "Get some sleep. You've earned it."</p><p class="">                "Can't argue with that," he murmured, settling back. Sam's hand stayed on his shoulder and then, suddenly, both the younger boy's skinny arms were around his neck, his head on his chest above his heart, and Sammy was hugging him tight.</p><p class="">                "I love you, Dean," he said softly. Dean’s eyes widened.</p><p class="">                "Sammy? You okay?"</p><p class="">                "Fine." Sam squeezed him lightly and sat back.</p><p class="">                "You sure?"</p><p class="">                "I'm sure." Sam saw that Dean still didn't believe him. "You know how screwed up it is that I can't say that without you thinking something's wrong?"</p><p class="">                Dean smiled, but still wasn’t convinced. He ruffled Sam's hair. "No panic attacks?"</p><p class="">                "No, Dean."</p><p class="">                "Nightmares?"</p><p class="">                "No, Dean."</p><p class="">                "Silent spells?"</p><p class="">                "<em>No</em>, Dean."</p><p class="">                "Just feeling like a baby girl, huh?"</p><p class="">                Sam tilted his head and looked suddenly sad. "You shouldn't care so little about yourself." Dean felt heat in his face and kept himself carefully composed. "You do <em>everything </em>for us.  For <em>me</em>. I may not always seem grateful, but I am."</p><p class="">                Dean wanted to say something funny, anything to lighten the sudden intensity of this moment, but his throat was so swollen he couldn't do much more than grin and ruffle Sam's hair again. "So...you'll wake me when you get back?"</p><p class="">                Sam smiled, but it seemed...old. "Sure." He got to his feet, hesitated at the door, and turned back to his brother. "Everything will be better when you wake up. Promise."</p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                John watched as his youngest son left the motel and started off at a steady pace toward the jogging trail in the woods. His heart raced, stomach roiling with anxiety and grief.</p><p class="">                <em>"You've got two boys, Winchester," Julian had said. "I am sorry, truly, that you have to lose one. But you and I—we understand the importance of the greater good. And, no matter how much it hurts him, your Dean will too.</em>"</p><p class="">                John watched as his youngest disappeared behind the tree line, and thought not of his second born, but his first.</p><p class=""><em>Dean</em>.</p><p class="">Dean, his good boy, his <em>obedient</em> boy.</p><p class="">Versus Sam, his youngest.</p><p class="">Sam...rebellious, maybe moody, maybe even belligerent at times. But <em>smart</em>. So damn smart. And, for so long, all he and Dean had clung to of their old life. Sammy had been someone to be loved and coddled, who had no memories of The Horror, who had offered them unconditional love and joy at things John and Dean had been too grief-stricken to even <em>fathom </em>being able to rejoice in.</p><p class="">But there was Baby Sammy, screaming with happiness when a bird joined them at a picnic table, or when John accidently turned on the shower instead of the tub faucet, or when the television had his favorite cartoon, or when John offered him his favorite cereal. When their hearts broke the worse, Sammy was the warm body curled in their beds, the sweet, powdered head they kissed and whispered comfort and reassurance.</p><p class="">                The thought of him <em>gone</em>...</p><p class="">                John had to fight a wave of nausea. Call him what you wanted—thief, liar, murderer—but when it came to his sons, he'd do, kill, sacrifice <em>anything</em> to keep them beyond the supernatural's reach.</p><p class="">                Except, apparently, he hadn't.  </p><p class="">                Something evil had staked its claim on his Sam, and while it might not have surfaced yet, when it did, the damage could be unthinkable. If it were only his own life on the line, he’d make do.</p><p class="">But he had to think of Dean now: Dean, his true, full-blooded, <em>human </em>son. He couldn’t go on, hunting and leaving Dean in charge of Sam, knowing what he did: that his youngest was half-monster.</p><p class="">But God—Sam—<em>Sammy—</em></p><p class="">John dug his palms into his eyes, trying to force back the tears. There was Dean and there was Sam, and life with one son was better than life with none. The very thought of <em>living w</em>ith none was unthinkable. And like it or not, John couldn’t allow himself to go down until that evil sonofabitch that had slaughtered his wife was banished from all the realms of this Earth.</p><p class="">John steeled himself. Like the Marines taught him. Like life without Mary had taught him. Like he’d ingrained in his children. Push the emotion down deep and focus only on the task that needed to be done.</p><p class="">Even if that task was putting down your little boy like he was nothing more than a rabid, unnatural beast.</p><p class="">
  <em>Your son is not human, Winchester. </em>
</p><p class="">My son is not human.</p><p class="">
  <em>We understand the greater good. </em>
</p><p class="">I understand the greater good.</p><p class=""><em>You will have to finish what you started</em>.</p><p class="">I always finish what I start.</p><p class="">John carefully turned over the engine and drove the Impala three miles southwest of the motel, where he knew the jogging trail wound. Sam—<em>no, not Sam, the mark, your target</em>—had become a strong runner, but this would give him the time he needed for an ambush. He had just about everything he needed but, since Sammy—<em>the mark</em>—hadn’t turned yet, he should go down without a fight.</p><p class="">
  <em>When does Sammy ever do anything without a fight? He’s your son, through and through. Even Missouri said that psychic’s implosion of his unconscious would have felled anyone else in days. Not your boy.</em>
</p><p class="">He slammed on the brakes and sat, breathing hard, hands clenched so tightly against the wheel it hurt. He couldn’t do it. He had to do it. He couldn’t.</p><p class="">He had to.</p><p class="">He <em>couldn’t</em>.</p><p class="">                He could wait. See if Sam made a full-fledged turn. They weren’t even sure what his abilities would <em>be</em>. They might be something that wasn’t so terrible. Something they could<em>—</em></p><p class="">                <em>What, John? Control? Use? Now you’re going to ally with one of the bastard's kids?</em></p><p class=""><em>                He’s </em>my <em>kid!</em></p><p class="">
  <em>                No, he’s not. Not since that night in the nursery. </em>
</p><p class="">John gritted his teeth, locking down his thoughts and feelings. Sam—the target—would be by soon. He had to move.</p><p class="">                He pretended his hands weren’t shaking as he checked he had the right Glock on him. And his silver knife. And a rosary and holy water. He would find a spot in the trees or brush and end it one clear, silent shot. He would feel nothing, know nothing. It would be humane.</p><p class="">                John moved forward, gun out, edging branches out of his way. Focused. Primed. Ready. Not Sammy. Not his boy. Not a boy at all. Slow, steady, focused, primed. Not Sammy. Not a boy. Not Sammy. Not his boy.</p><p class="">                "Hi Dad," a voice said to his right. John whirled, weapon raised, on instinct. Sam—<em>not Sammy, not his boy</em>—stood calmly, watching him.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="">Dean couldn't sleep. He'd wanted to, told himself he was overreacting, that Sam was just being his overdramatic self and nothing was wrong.</p><p class="">                But goddammit, something<em> was </em>wrong. He had vague memories of a little Sam insisting they say "I love you," before they'd fallen asleep, but he'd outgrown it quickly. The bonds between them, and between their father, were carried out in actions, deeds, not words. For Sammy to suddenly say that before going on a run? Because Dean had been showing him <em>bow hunting</em>?</p><p class="">                Maybe in some parallel universe. Maybe in some version of their life Before the Fire, Before the Road.</p><p class="">But not in this life. Not in this reality.</p><p class="">He got to his feet, ignored his throbbing leg, and laced up his sneakers. So he was still in jeans—their father had taught them to run, swim, and fight in whatever they were wearing. He could follow Sammy without a problem. He could follow Sammy anywhere. It was what big brothers did. It was what <em>Dean</em> did. What he was <em>made</em> for.</p><p class="">His father’s voice told him to stop, think, plan. He attempted all the John Winchester distillation principles, with no result. Logic wouldn't cure this. Screw Occam, screw John. Instinct, gut. Bobby had told him to trust it. Missouri had proven there was more to the mind than science could ever chart and study. Dean had seen enough, to <em>know </em>there was more in life than he could chart and study.</p><p class="">He knew his gut, and his gut was telling him that something was wrong with Sammy.</p><p class="">He gimped to the other side of the room, grabbing his key off the table when he noticed his father had left his duffel. That wasn’t all <em>that </em>unusual, except that he’d also left it open, just a bit. The clenching in his gut reached siren levels. Dean scooped the bag up and pulled it open.</p><p class="">Two books. Two journals, side by side. The hunter’s journal his father took everywhere, and another, smaller black one. Dean swayed on his bad leg. Then he abandoned all he knew of logic and reason and planning and safety and did what his mother would do, which was slam the door behind him as he took off running, completely uncaring if he was racing straight into hell itself if it meant saving his brother, yet again, from the flames.</p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                "Sammy," John sighed, lowering his pistol slightly.</p><p class="">                "Concentrated silver bullets, powder and salt mix?" Sam asked. John's gripped tightened on the handle. "And what kills a monster like me, Dad? Head shot? Heart shot? Or were you just going to blow out my throat and hope it knocked me out long enough for you to get a machete?"</p><p class="">                John winced. "Sammy. You've got to understand. This is never what I wanted."</p><p class="">                "You don't think I'm human.”</p><p class="">                Hearing it said that way hurt more than it should have. John took a deep breath. "Sam, listen. Please. What you read—it was to <em>protect</em> you." Sam shook his head, eyes filling. "Listen—when I first hit the road with you boys and met my first hunters, all of them were focusing on you. You weren't the first, Sammy. There were rumors that some...<em>thing</em> was moving through nurseries, slaughtering parents and turning infants. The journal...it was to show them, to <em>prove </em>to them, that nothing had touched you. That you weren't going to turn. That you were nothing but a normal kid." John's voice wavered. Sam glared at him.</p><p class="">                "No, Dad," he said, voice like steel. "You believed it too. If you hadn't—if you really thought I was just...<em>normal</em>, you wouldn't have found Julian. You wouldn't have <em>given </em>me to Julian."</p><p class="">                "Julian said he could get a look at what killed your mother. That's all."</p><p class="">                "You're lying.”</p><p class="">                "He said—"</p><p class="">                "You gave me to him because you thought I was one of that <em>thing's</em> kids!" Sam's hands clenched into fists, and the ground beneath John seemed to shudder. "You thought Julian would make me spill its secrets to you. And <em>then </em>what, Dad? You would have just killed me in Bobby's living room? In front of Dean? Or Dean would have just stood back and let you? <em>I </em>would have just sat back and let you? Knowing I was just a <em>freak</em>?" Sam's voice hitched. John took a deep breath.</p><p class="">                "Sammy—I've told you I didn't think it through. I just wanted to kill the thing that <em>burned your mother alive.</em>" Sam flinched. "And finding out what it was—if anything <em>did</em> happen to you that night, then—in order to help you, we had to see, <em>know</em>, what's out there that's <em>doing </em>this. You were our best resource, Sam."</p><p class="">                "I was your <em>son</em>," Sam's voice cracked, eyes filling. John felt a horrid wrench in his own gut. "You were my <em>dad.</em> All my life you talked about putting blood first, family, watching out for each other. And all that time..."</p><p class="">                "No!" John roared. "It was to protect you, <em>save </em>you! Prove to the other hunters you were <em>normal</em>!"</p><p class="">                "You never believed that!" Sam shouted, thin hands shoving John a step backward. "You made me a <em>test subject</em>! You came here to <em>kill </em>me!"</p><p class="">                They looked at one another. John's hand tightened on the pistol, gut lurching. "Sammy...I never wanted it to come to this. Please, you have to know that."</p><p class="">                A tear slipped out of Sam's right eye. He stepped slowly away. "I have conditions," he said softly.</p><p class="">                "Sam—"</p><p class="">                "Listen!" Sammy shivered once more. "You've got to cover up how I died. I don't care how you do it, but if Dean never sees my body, he'll believe I'm somehow still alive. He won't stop looking. It will drive him crazy. So I don't care how, but you frame it so I'm found, but don't let him find me. Let me be clean and in the morgue before he sees."</p><p class="">                John's throat ached, but he managed a weak nod. "Sammy—"</p><p class="">                "He'll want to test me for everything. You need to let him. Make sure he realizes it's really me, and not some <em>thing </em>made to look like me." John nodded. "And Dad...you've got to <em>stay </em>with him. You can't keep taking off for days or weeks at a time. Take him with you, make him a full-hunter. But only when he's ready. When...when he sees that it <em>is </em>me...he'll need time. Take him to Bobby's. Or Missouri's. Let him have stability for a little bit. <em>Please</em>, Dad. He—" Sam's voice hitched. "It's going to be hard for him."</p><p class="">                John couldn't even see his youngest through the tears he fought not to let fall. He knew his Sam was right, but that didn't make it easier. Losing his boy would be hard enough, but watching Dean's frantic search efforts...and his denial...and the aftermath as he realized his brother was gone, John wasn't sure he could bear it.</p><p class="">He thought of Dean, glaring up at him over his shoulder as he shielded Sammy under his arm—Dean, holding and rocking Sammy as he sobbed and fought, more asleep than awake; Dean, opting for the back seat instead of the front, settling his brother's head on his leg; Dean, who took such pride, such true <em>happiness</em>, in caring for Sam. He'd wanted a brother since the moment Mary and John explained a baby was on the way.</p><p class="">When John had arrived at the sitter’s to collect his young son and announce that his Mom and new baby Sammy were fine, Dean had immediately insisted they make two "Welcome Home" signs: one for his mother, one for his new brother. "So when Sammy can read, he'll know we wanted him to come home," he'd explained.</p><p class="">                Hundreds of memories flashed in front of John: Dean carefully holding the baby when their mother had been lost—showing him picture books in the back of the car—smiling when Sammy splashed in the tub and soaked him—holding out his arms while a barely-balanced Sam ran, full-force, somehow managing to stay upright long enough to land safely in his big brother's embrace.   </p><p class="">                Dean, growing more and more terrified, as the hours go by and Sam's missing...calling in all their contacts, foregoing sleep and food and the still-dull ache in his leg trying to find his kid brother...denying the body with the fatal bullet-wound <em>is </em>his kid brother?</p><p class="">                <em>For Dean. You have to do this for Dean. For your good soldier, your good son. And for Sam. Sam would never want to hurt him. Sam would want go to heaven, see his mother. Not land in hell because some evil thing damned him. Mary will see that he gets home.</em></p><p class="">"Sam," John's voice cracked. "You've got to know that I—I was so, <em>so</em> happy to be your father. That I have always been <em>so</em> proud of you. I love you, more than you'll ever know. And I will take care of Dean. And your mother, I know, will take care of you." Sam's bottom lip shook as his eyes filled. "And I swear to you on Mary's grave, that every word you read was to protect you. That ever since I've heard, all I've wanted is to save you."</p><p class="">                Sammy nodded, curling his shaking hands into fists. "Thanks, Dad," he whispered. John lost his battle with tears, but smiled even as they rolled down his face, trying to will the love for his son into his expression.</p><p class="">                "Will it hurt?" Sam managed, and John could barely keep himself from sobbing as Sammy lifted his chin and tried so, so hard to look brave.</p><p class="">                "No, son," he murmured, raising his pistol. "I promise."</p><p class=""> </p><p class=""> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="">Normally, a run like this would have been kid's play. But with his damn busted leg, it was worse than a marathon. In Texas. In summer.</p><p class="">                For years, he hadn’t even <em>thought </em>of that stupid book. There was the journal that covered everything, their whole lives, and that was all that mattered. When Sammy had talked of his dreams, his nightmares, Dean had just assumed he was drawing conclusions from the memories Julian had unleashed. Surely, if John truly believed Sammy was anything but theirs, he'd have known…right?<br/><br/>                 But then why was that stupid little journal reappearing? Why was Sammy setting out like it was his last run? Why the hell was Dean still determined to believe that John loved and did what was best for them both?<br/><br/>                <em>Because you're a hunter at heart. </em><em>Because you think with your mind, not your gut. </em><em>Because you know the simplest explanation is the truest, and a monster breeds monsters, and a monster was in your brother's nursery, encoding evil within his head, and no amount of fancy leaps or gut feelings will save your family from that. </em><br/><br/>                Dean stumbled, grabbed a tree for balance. He wouldn't believe it: whatever his own unconscious pushed, whatever years of ingrained hatred of the supernatural, belief that there was nothing to do but put monsters down like the rabid beasts they were, he wouldn't yield his faith in Sam.<br/><br/>              <em>But has Sam yielded his faith in himself?</em></p><p>               It was his darkest dreams come alive: Sammy, in danger, somewhere in front of him, and his damned body refusing to move as he willed it.</p><p>              <em>Suck it up</em>, he thought, trying to channel the pain as his father had taught him. <em>Because this...this is nothing compared to what you'll feel if you fail. </em></p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                John really believed his hand wasn't shaking. He really believed he could face down this creature: his most lethal, his most well-disguised. He had every reason to end it.</p><p class="">                But seeing this...fledgling monster, this…<em>thing</em> in the guise of a child...in the guise of <em>his </em>child...</p><p class="">                <em>He'll kill Dean. Kill you. Kill hunters. Kill everything and anything in its path. </em></p><p class="">
  <em>                End it. Kill it first. </em>
</p><p class="">And there Sam stood, arms loose at his sides, eyes closed, breathing hard and shaky. One tear escaped, and then a second, but still, the boy—<em>his </em>boy—stood firm. Waiting.  Willing to sacrifice himself, for the good of his brother, the convenience of his father.</p><p class="">                <em>For God's, Christ's, Mary's, the Devil's sake, what more do you need! </em></p><p class="">                What rang through him went beyond the voice of Julian, of his drill sergeants, of the endless mythological texts, of even his own father. It was a solid, gut-wrenching certainty that no psychic, no demon, no principle could ever disprove:</p><p class="">                <em>This is </em>your<em> son.</em></p><p class="">
  <em>                Your son, who would stand and face death rather than harm those he loved.</em>
</p><p class="">
  <em>                Your son, who would give his mind, conscious and unconscious, for the cause.</em>
</p><p class="">
  <em>                Your son, who planned thoroughly and methodically for his family's well-being and peace in his absence.</em>
</p><p class="">
  <em>                Your son, who is stronger, smarter, and more selfless than you will ever be. </em>
</p><p><em>                Your smart, belligerent, rebellious, and all too </em>human<em> boy. </em></p><p class="">John lost his grip on the gun. He lost his grip on the sobs in his chest. He fell to his knees, grabbed Sam by his shoulders, and gripped hard. Sam gasped, still attempting to maintain his bravado.</p><p class="">                "Sammy," John said, voice breaking. "I am...so, so sorry."</p><p class="">                "Please...get it over with," Sam managed. John shook his head.</p><p class="">                "No, son. There won't be any 'over.'"</p><p class="">                "What?"</p><p class="">                "I don't care what it takes." John grasped the side of his boy's head and held fast. "I'll save you, Sammy. Your brother and I...we will <em>find </em>a way to save you."</p><p class="">                Sam's eyes widened. "No! I can't—I won't go back to waiting. I won't! You can't imagine what it's like to wait to die, Dad! And not know when it's coming...I'm ready. I'm ready now!"</p><p class="">                "No," John murmured, stroking his son's hair. "No, Sammy. You're not going anywhere. Not by my hand. Not by anyone's, so long as I live."</p><p class="">                "But...your journal. I read it. I know—"</p><p class="">                "I was <em>wrong</em>."</p><p class="">                "No! Julian—"</p><p class="">                "I don't care!" John grabbed Sam's shoulders and squeezed so hard the boy winced. "Whatever happens, you, me, your brother—we take it together! No more of this—Sam...I won't. I can't. I <em>swear</em>."</p><p class="">                "Don't do this," Sam's voice broke. "Dad, please, please don't <em>torture me</em>. Just do it now. I'm ready now!"</p><p class="">                "Shhh, it's over, Sammy. It's over," John forced a smile. "We'll save you. Dean and me, we'll save you."</p><p class="">                "You can?"</p><p class="">                "We can."</p><p class="">                "<em>How</em>?"</p><p class="">                John swallowed, hard. "I don't know, kiddo. But we will. I swear we will. We will or we'll die trying. The <em>three</em> of us," he snapped, before Sam could protest, "we will die trying."</p><p class="">                Sam let out a sob and began to cry, in earnest. "I don't want to be a monster, Dad."</p><p class="">                "You're no monster," John pulled his youngest—scrawny, trembling arms and legs and all—into him, and held tight, pleading silently for Mary to forgive him for ever thinking of this <em>child </em>as anything but his own. "You never will be, Sammy. I swear to you. It will be all right." His voice broke once more. "It will be all right, baby."</p><p class="">                And Sam, after all these months, finally hugged him back.</p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                 Dean had been running for so long and so hard that his chest, legs, and back ached. His throat felt unnaturally cold and painful when he gasped for breath, stumbling over rocks and pitfalls in the road.</p><p class="">                "Sammy!" he called. He'd lost track of how many times he'd yelled to the woods and the dark to give his brother back. He should have known. He should have left hours earlier, should never have let Sam leave the motel.</p><p class="">                If—<em>when</em> he found him, he'd never <em>ever</em> let him out of his sight again. He'd follow the damn kid everywhere. He'd get a goddamn leash and lock it up with iron and protective sigils.</p><p class="">                "SAM!" he howled, and tore deeper into the woods, rounding a corner and freezing.</p><p class="">                Sam was there, held tight in their father's arms, rocked back and forth like he was a baby. Dad's face was pressed into the long brown strands, his body shaking as he cradled his youngest. Dean stumbled forward, expecting the worse, relief almost bringing him to his knees when Sam looked up and smiled at him.</p><p class="">                "It's okay, Dean," he soothed, just as he had before closing the motel room door.</p><p class="">                Dean dragged his stupid leg forward and tore Sam away from their father. He seized Sammy's head, then briefly ran his hands down over his shoulders, chest, looking everywhere for wounds before, finding none, pressing his brother against his own chest. "Sammy," he said, as if saying his name made his brother real, made them safe. "Oh God." He pushed him away, holding fast to his shoulders. "You're all right?"</p><p class="">                Sam just shook his head. "I'm sorry," he gasped, voice cracking with hurt. Dean couldn't contain his own tears and yanked his brother close once more.</p><p class="">                "Shhh, it's okay, you're okay," he murmured, glaring over his brother's shoulder at John. Because they would have words, oh yes, and John was going to get them at full-volume. Dean had been quiet, the voice of both Winchester brothers—the voice of the good sons—for far too long. He was going to be his <em>own</em> voice, and his own voice was going to have a whole hell of a lot to say about his father's judgments.  </p><p class=""> But not here.  Not in front of Sam.</p><p class="">"Everything's all right," he whispered. And his leg hurt, and his chest hurt, and his head hurt, and Sammy was crying against him, but he meant it. If he had to flip earth upside-down, goddammit, he was going to make it right.</p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                John walked his sons back to the car. Dean kept a firm arm around his brother and suspicious eyes on his father. John knew his eldest had things to say. And for once, in all humility, he'd hear them. They were deserved. All was deserved. And then some.</p><p class="">                Dean took a place on the back seat. Words weren't needed to know he wouldn't be leaving it anytime soon.</p><p class="">                Back in the motel parking lot, the boys exited through opposite sides of the car in silence. They shut their doors in unison and moved, almost as one, toward their room. Partway there Dean stopped, pulling out his cell, and placed a guarded arm around his brother while he answered.</p><p class="">                John had killed the ignition and gotten to his feet when he sensed his son's eyes turn toward him. He shoved the keys in his pocket and marched, tired and guilty, toward him.</p><p class="">                "It's Bobby," Dean said, shoving the phone into his hand before turning, Sammy under his arm, and leading him back toward their room. John watched his eldest, struggling on his bad leg, leaning on his younger son—because Sam <em>was</em> his son, dammit!—as they made their way to the door. Drew a deep breath and answered.</p><p class="">                “It’s John.”         </p><p class="">                “Julian Masters is dead.”</p><p class="">                “You love a dramatic entrance, don’t you Singer?”</p><p class="">                “Shove it.”</p><p class="">                “How’d he die?”</p><p class="">                “Damndest thing—housekeeper went to get him for dinner and found him pinned to ceiling of his study, bleeding from the stomach. Then claims he burst into flame. She’s being treated for PTSD and his charred corpse is set for cremation. Imagine it won’t take long.”</p><p class="">                John took a shuttered breath, forcing his mind not to wander to his wife's charred bones. “Sonofabitch.”</p><p class="">                “It got him all right. And now we know—it's a demon, John.”</p><p class="">                John leaned against the Impala. “Serves him right. He told me he communicated with the SOBs for info.”</p><p class="">                “More than communicated—he was offering up poor bastards as vessels every time he needed a favor. Call a plumber, carpenter, painter—demon gets a free ride out of hell, he gets the answers no one else can get.”</p><p class="">                “Until he called the wrong one,” John sighed.</p><p class="">                “That’s one way of looking at it,” Bobby said carefully.</p><p class="">                “Whaddaya mean?”</p><p class="">                "This thing ain't no Newt Gingrich or Jerry Falwell. We're talking Hitler and Stalin level.  And this...'Masters' disturbed its handiwork.”</p><p class="">                “Handiwork?”</p><p class="">                “He damaged the wards. The locks that were put in place on Sam’s mind.”</p><p class="">                “You think it was…what, <em>protecting </em>him?”</p><p class="">                "You said Sam's not the only kid this thing went after. And Masters seemed to understand what had been done. The only question is <em>why</em>. This thing's plans don't end with your kid. And this demon can't have some rogue psychic going around trackin' and bustin' down the doors of its creations. We've got something big coming. And I hate to say it, but Sam may be the best chance we got at getting a jump on the damn thing."</p><p class="">                John drew a shaky breath. “Thanks, Bobby. I owe you one.”</p><p class="">                “You owe me so damn much it ain’t never getting repaid. But you can <em>start </em>by salting down that room you’ve got your boys in. We don’t need it going after you or Dean next. And we sure as hell don't need it snatching Sam because it could do a better job of raising him.”</p><p class="">                "At this rate...I wonder that myself."</p><p class="">                Bobby sighed. "John, you're a stupid, obsessed sonofabitch. And you ain't gonna win Father of the Year anytime soon. But you've raised two of the best kids I ever met, and that don't come from nowhere.  Wherever Mary is, and whatever she would’ve done different, there's no way she ain't proud of how those two turned out." He chuckled slightly. "Even with their asshole daddy."</p><p class="">***</p><p class="">                Sam showered away the day—the run, the smell of whiskey and aftershave—<em>Dad—</em>the smell of shampoo and sweat—<em>Dean—</em>and pulled on sweat pants and a T-shirt. Dean was already in bed, propped against the headboard, eyes on the TV although, Sam knew, his attention was rooted to wherever his brother was. He didn't make any of his usual comments or even roll his eyes when Sam slid onto the bed next him, just tossed a far-too-casual arm across his brother's shoulders and hauled him close, thumb rubbing absently along his arm.</p><p class="">                Sam's faith in his father had been shaken down to nothing. His faith in <em>himself</em> had been annihilated. But Sam's faith in Dean was what it had always been—absolute. When he couldn't speak, Dean had stayed by him, reading, humming, and loudly defending him. When he couldn't read, Dean had bought books and newspapers and magazines and spent hours explaining them. When he couldn't swallow, Dean had prepared manageable food and held him when his fear threatened to overwhelm his stomach. Regardless of the time, the place, or any of his own needs: Dean had given it all to be there for him.</p><p class="">                And right then, Sam was tired—down-to-the-bone tired. He didn't want to think, or dream, or anything else for a good week. And he couldn't say he'd mind if Dean was vigilant in his big brother duties. Somehow, he knew Missouri would approve. Somehow, he knew Dean would understand.</p><p class="">                Warm and comfortable and feeling so perfectly safe tucked against his brother's side, it didn't take longer than a few minutes before his eyelids grew heavy. Dean lowered the volume and jostled him, ever so gently. </p><p class="">                "You know, geekboy, you were wrong about Occam's Razor."</p><p class="">                "Yeah?" Sam mumbled.</p><p class="">                "Yeah. Only amateurs say it's 'the simplest explanation is true.' <em>Real</em> scientists know it's more. It's ‘we should <em>tend</em> towards simpler theories until we can trade some simplicity for increased explanatory power.' In other words, we should only believe what's easiest until we know better.”</p><p class="">                "You so memorized that from somewhere," Sam said with a smile.</p><p class="">                "Doesn't matter. You're wrong and I'm right. As always."</p><p class="">                “Occam wanted to keep people from trying to over-complicate theories in an effort to disprove them.”</p><p class="">                “No, Occam made it up because scientists like to wank a billion theories at a time and say they’re all equal, so he was like ‘shove it, we’re going with the most obvious.’ But that doesn’t mean it’s <em>true</em>, just that it should be labeled ‘true’ until a more elaborate truth could be stated <em>simply</em>.”</p><p class="">                “Like, ‘I’m a monster.’”</p><p class="">                “No. Like, you’re an idiot who doesn’t know the <em>definition</em> of a monster. One day, when you really understand it, you’ll see you’ve never been one and never <em>could</em> be. And then the simplest explanation will change, just because you’ve outgrown it.”</p><p class="">                Sam felt a lump in his throat. Of all the annoying, irritating, <em>maddening </em>habits his brother had, his steadfast love was the best.</p><p class=""> </p><p class=""> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class=""><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by John:<br/></b>Please keep writing in code. I don't want Dean to know.<br/><br/>*<br/><br/><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/></b>I think we've had enough family secrets.</p><p class=""><br/>*<br/><br/><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by John:<br/></b>He's worried about me enough. If I go dark side, you handle it.</p><p class="">*<br/><br/><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/></b>Your brother would never forgive me. <br/> </p><p class="">*<br/><br/><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by John:<br/></b>If you put this on him, <span class="u">I'll</span> never forgive you.<br/><br/>*</p><p class=""><br/><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/></b>Let's just focus on taking this thing out before we get to that point. If we go down, we’ll go down as a family.<br/> </p><p>*</p><p class=""><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by John:<br/></b>I know, Dad. Thanks.<br/><br/>*</p><p class=""><br/><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/></b>I would like to talk to Dean. I meant what I said about secrets.<br/> </p><p>*</p><p class=""><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by John:<br/></b>I need time to think. Please?<br/> </p><p>*</p><p class=""><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/></b>All right. But soon.</p><p class=""> </p><p>*</p><p class=""><br/><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by John:<br/></b>Dean's birthday is coming up. I want to do something really special for him.<br/> </p><p class="">*</p><p class=""><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/></b>I found a werewolf in Vermont.<br/> </p><p>*</p><p class=""><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by John:<br/></b>Dad, can't we give him something that <span class="u">doesn't</span> need to be killed?<br/><br/>*<br/><br/><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/></b>Already talked to Caleb about getting a good deal on a new Glock.<br/><br/>*<br/><br/><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by John:<br/></b>Dad! No weapons, no creatures.<br/><br/>*</p><p class=""><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/></b>Dean likes hunting werewolves.<br/><br/>*</p><p class=""><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by John:<br/></b>That doesn’t mean he should have to take one out on his birthday.<br/><br/>*</p><p class=""><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/></b>I did snag the watch he liked. <br/><br/>*</p><p class=""><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by John:<br/></b>I did too.<br/><br/>*</p><p class=""><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/></b><span class="u">No stealing until you’re 18</span>. I don’t want to tell you again.   <br/><br/>*</p><p class=""><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by John:<br/></b>I won’t even mention that most parents wouldn’t encourage stealing <span class="u">at all.</span><br/><br/>*</p><p class=""><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/></b>Good, then I won’t mention that most children know better than to advise their parents on their parenting.<br/><br/>*</p><p class=""><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by John:<br/></b>Seriously, I want to do something for Dean, and we need a better way to keep this hidden.<br/><br/>*</p><p class=""><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/></b>What do you want to do?<br/><br/>*</p><p class=""><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by John:<br/></b>I don’t know…concert tickets? Game tickets?<br/><br/>*</p><p class=""><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/></b>I’m not letting your brother go to a concert by himself. I’m not old enough for grandkids.<br/><br/>*</p><p class=""><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by John:<br/></b>Dad! Fine. Game?<br/><br/>*</p><p class=""><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/></b>Where and when? We don’t even know where we’ll be.<br/><br/>*</p><p class=""><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by John:<br/></b><span class="u">Would it kill you to give Dean a nice birthday</span>?<br/><b><br/></b><br/>*</p><p class=""><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/></b>I’m not going to start arguing with you in code.<br/><br/>*</p><p class=""><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by John:<br/></b>Nevermind. I’ll figure it out on my own.<br/><br/><br/>*</p><p class=""><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by Sam:<br/></b>You just earned a couple extra miles. Keep it up.<br/><br/>*</p><p class=""><b>A note in John's journal as decoded by John and Sam:<br/></b>You're both idiots. Quit trying to sneak this thing back and forth like girls in math class. I broke the code when I was twelve.<br/>And I want a car.       </p><p class=""> </p><p class=""> </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>